What is it all about then, this thing that they call church?
A crutch for needy losers, when life's left them in the lurch?
A place that people turn to when they just can't handle strife;
or so terrified of dying that they seek an afterlife?
Easter has come, and we are prisoners still,
And feel the loss of all we would have planned
To celebrate the ancient, timeless thrill
Of resurrection, as throughout this land,
Throughout this world indeed, through ages past
The unremembered multitude of those
Who have been saved by Jesus’ dying grace...
We all have days when we would say
"I want to be alone"
To shut the door and draw the drapes,
Unplug the telephone.
Block out the world, switch off the stress
And savour peace and quiet.
We need those times of solitude,
to rest the mind and heart....
In every generation there's an "end is nigh" event; famine, war or climate change,
disasters from a natural cause, or those that we invent. And now the world is under threat the enemy unseen; spreading fear and bringing death... its name? COVID-19
Suddenly we face the fact that we aren't...
Across shimmering wastelands and beneath endless skies,
Where the scorpion lurks, where the grim vulture flies,
Where the trail’s swept trackless by the djinn in the breeze,
Where mirages conjure mad cities or seas,
Where the silence can roar, and the day’s brilliance pierce,
And the heat bind and batter...
"Then there was silence"
In memory of 11th November 1918
The idea for this poem came from hearing an audio recording commissioned by the Imperial War Museum, in partnership with sound designers Coda to Coda, and released in 2018 to commemorate the centenary of the end of the First World...
The sweetness of September’s like
A fat, full-ripened berry
As it bursts upon your tongue.
The softness of September’s like
A shimmering, silken gossamer
That drifts across your skin.
What is the moon—that single satellite
Of planet earth, spun like a ball of shot
That nestles in the unseen sling of earth-pull?
She is a fickle, restless sky-bound presence:
Sometimes a gilded orb, or lustrous pearl,
Or bright, blanched bead of desiccated bone,
Or the buttery face of childhood...
What can I say that might convey the way I feel about July?
When birdsong wanes, and a muted prayer-like stillness falls on urban streets,
When dawn breaks with the unvarying hymn of a dismal, echoing pigeon chorus,
And only the chirps of riff-raff sparrows punctuate the afternoons,...