There is a truth
There is a truth that only poetry can spell
While solemn theology rests in silence.
God and dogma sit uneasily
In the library corner
Til politely God gets up
And slowly takes his leave
To drink coffee with the poets
And the dreamers in the corner.
We find God later with the busy mummies
Attending babies in the changing stall
And later still in the smokey pubs
With epic whiskies on the ancient walls
While old men’s eyes grow bright again
Remembering tales both short and tall.
Tonight God sits with lorry drivers
Leaving ferries in far off ports
Heading along the lonely roads
Bisecting France, bisecting night.
He joins men in their cabins
When they pull off to catch some sleep
In cold laybys on foreign soil
As hauliers pass them until dawn.
Then God assists an ancient priest
To open weathered doors of an older church
In central France while nearby on the motorway
The lorry driver runs his solo run
As a handful of the faithful
Come stooped and bowed
To answer Gods other call.
The call to stand where time and history merge
And gaze into stained glass and see
The eternal and the almighty
Coming to a point above the altar
Seen better from afar
From the entrance to the vestry.
The Laneway snakes down to the sea
The Laneway snakes down to the sea
Between bushes jostling for light
It’s a fine free for all in the country
On the old road that ends at the coast.
Nettles and thistles in combat
With tall grass and sallies as well
With each year that passes
The bushes grow taller
As natures reclaims her lair.
A laneway once busy with workers
Now rarely sees a soul
Sea breezes gambol and run
Along the green corridor for fun.
Away in the distance a cottage
Pretends not to notice or care
The kettle is boiling
The WiFi is working
With hardly a moment to spare
Their voices
Their voices lay silent
Under the carpet of snow
In the silence of winter
Even as snowdrops grow
While peeking up from below
The crocus will try to show
Hope is arriving at last
Longer days lie stretching ahead
Earlier dawns tiptoeing past.
How long do we lie in a grave
Til we hear the call to revive?
To rise up from the coffin we made
Home for the years and the centuries?
Until at last we come back
Some silent January morning
When the world which long has forgotten
Is witness to our returning.
Returning like Christ after three days
No less surprising, no less surreal
That the good God should continue to care
To gift just another rising today
If not in body but it spirit
Revealed on a springlike day.
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