I watch Rich Teas float like ash
The Gusto goes unprepared
My days pass like smoke
And each tear burns

I sit with he who remains
I still with the God of years
and even with tears
I drink with him

She'd said
she'd buy the flowers herself.
She knew what to get.
She'd found a reliable florist.
And she had the time
to select the perfect arrangement.

That's what the Funeral Director
told us at the Co-op.

And on the day, we all agreed -
the flowers were lovely.
And no one was left
in any doubt -
she'd have loved them.

This is the shoe where poetry lives
It walks with a tap and the occasional hop and skip
But on Mondays it drags a little on the way to the train station

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Ready to throw a kick but inevitably risking a stubbed toe
Harbouring the memory of a break and the months of limp

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Experimenting with an odd sock, denoting a qwerky outlook
And if you were to examine it's sole you'd find an uneven wear

This is the shoe where poetry lives
Grass stained from ventures along less travelled paths
And carrying scuffs from many climbed boundary walls

This is the shoe where poetry lives
And it sits by the back door ready for the next adventure
Silently jealous of the shoe that was claimed by the dog last night

My prism sits in my hand
and if I raise it just enough
I see light in a whole new light.
But I kid myself, if I think
I've seen it all.

My bible sits in my hands
and if I open it often enough...

Like a piece of my jigsaw
Like a block from my jenga
Like a bridge for my song
Like a love forgone

You are missing from me

Imagine no shadows, no night.
All light
everywhere.
No need for shade.
For we are all basking
in one all enveloping
Light.

And we shall see his face.

Swig the morning dew
Join song amongst the blackbirds
This is vintage spring