I wouldn’t call us friends
but we’re close, intimate even -
they’ve known me longer,
know me better than anyone.

They read me, clearly see
the full back-catalogue of me,
understand me, often better than me
and they know just how to wound me,
seam doubt in me, refusing a stitch of mercy.

Sometimes I think them merciless,
sometimes merely vindictively honest,
but I cannot deny their knowledge,
their perceptiveness.

Nevertheless, there are essentials
that their words do lack
- imagination
- hope
- kindness
and the one furthest from their grasp
- forgiveness.

And so, I pay greater heed
to the friend whose words brim with love,
whose knowledge of me is greater,
whose patience is longer, and who sees
who I am in Him
- forgiven.

There’s a God who enflames.
He puts fire in the head
and though I have run, the wind
has never extinguished the flames,
though I have swum, the depths
have never doused them,
though I have sung long,
the music has never drowned them out.

So I have sat and I stilled
and as the flames settled
I found they were a gift, a friend,
and that this friendship warmed me.
And we ate and storied
our way through the nights.

And the flames took hold
as intended.

Like a Yew tree
in its fifth century.
Like a June Beetle
in its fifth month,
burying its eggs in the soil.
I pay little heed
I give no value
to the boasts of kings.

Like a treed squirrel
with no fear of capture.
Like a failed terrier
with two feet on the ground,
giving no heed to heel.
I fall victim
I am subject
to my nature.

Like a Pool Frog
at a dry river bed.
Like the flow
of a water garden
in the dry season.
I am stilled.
I am struck dumb.
I am Walpoled.

Keep a clear head
Your eyes peeled
Your nose clean
Your lips sealed.

And whatever it takes
- keep a straight face.

I know the face of God
I have that faith beyond my sight

I know my fellow pilgrims
I have this comfort of common doubts.

I doubt my church at its lychgate
I bear these beliefs in its shade.