Every year the long awaited Christmas season arrives and, try as I might to let it linger, it does seem to dissipate rather quickly leaving something of a dull ache behind. Perhaps this feeling is telling of how we approach Christmas in the first place, as it can so often end up buried in hurryRead more
My earliest memory is of travelling on a plane. Airline regulations have changed since I was a child but back then, rather than buckling children up the entire flight, adults would simply put a blanket on the floor and lay small children under their feet to sleep. One would hope, as anyone who’s traveled with childrenRead more
Lord let the sun Be as bright As the amber Street light that I might trust in The morning What I know by The evening.
The grey kirk, that old yard of reformation Lies still but for a gull’s dawn supplication As no more rises from our white bricked up stack But my window breath and a hope to call back Where the Firth wind blows off the green kingly seat Down into kind kirk halls where song and prayerRead more
Written in rose hue sky, Plotted on gold flecked path The sum of a morning’s math, Adds to truth, subtracting the lie. Skeleton trees on blue Waving de-fleshed in place Count on the breath of the grace And the mercy today made new. Faithful are You we know Who gave this scene itsRead more
Rail, water, winter They all move along Through our storied hinter Land like a carol song Out a holy people’d hall On December’s bitter breath Over frosty steeples tall To remembered yards of death. For every coming has it’s going Every Advent has it’s end When rivers quit their icy slowing And steaming enginesRead more
All I want’s a window Where stellars in the fog Dogfight with the finches As I lay here and log The reasons I adore you A sparrow made to sing Wrapped in grey and pale blue And wearing my gift ring.
These little lines fit only here Wherein the rhymes I see appear A world on page I might traverse From age to age, a universe.
We write forgotten, before our formed Worlds are begotten they stretch unmourned; Our pens adrift and pages void, Language abandoned once deployed; We are un-listened, but by one Ear, Where each note’s christened, retained and dear.
The window hangs a scene, Where patient trees in frame, Stand silhouettes of green In oil we’ve yet to name. The vision breathes in flight, As birds with every stroke, Caress the morning bright While heavy pens are woke. The window hangs a scene, More lovely to be sure, Than Turner’s finest dreamRead more