nicks

It always seems magic: That gap in the hedge Where the bridleway cuts through To the next field. The light shimmers as leaves fidget, Softening the dark borders To that short tunnel. But we turn left And up the stoney lane Where life is the same And Betty sicks up the grass That she just had to eat. Yet in my minds' eye remains The loss: a glimpse of paradise. 18 October 2018

A crowd assembles in twos and threes In the cold damp air and chilly sun Outside All Saints: some clutching Memories and some wreaths. The children watch as Nick reshuffles The timings for the Last Post: To finish at eleven on the dot So we'll be silent in remembrance. Yet today either the list of names Is longer or the old soldier reads Too slowly: so the clock tower bell Loudly interrupts the bugle's lament.

I look right just short of West Malling As an orchard fills the train window. It's static in the late afternoon sun: Regularly spaced trees in leaf Above the too green grass. The plants briefly frame a church tower behind, Which is a stone rectangle topped by a cone: Its perfect off white shining against A fairy tale blue sky and fleeting cloud balls. Glimpsed where earlier there had been Barbed wire and nettle: As we passengers leaving London Are bound for our futures.

The poetry of Russia Etched in an eyebrow        Of a man I'd never heard of: Upraised in a flamboyant curve Yet nonchalant and friendly. Who was this man Who had inspired so much love? Who this people?

My momentum is blocked by too much opportunity; By my love of distractions And willingness to lounge about on a pretty detour. There are so many lines on my map That I cannot clearly see the way to our destination. When I share the vision people briefly glimpse the peak: It is majestic, snowy-capped and tall. Come climb with me, I ask, And they come trusting me. We enjoy the foothills And the sense of closing the big target. But at other times we are less certain: It is night and we have no torch to see the page. Are we really going? Yes, I say. Yes. In part because in thinking of the prize I have already spent it: And that’s OK. Dubrovnik, September 2014

I was sent a mustard seed today By post, taped to a calling card Inside a small envelope and the Message said: "Faith as small as a mustard seed". In church, when the choir stopped Singing, my correspodent said: "In Israel, I saw trees clapping hands". As her coach slowed, the large heavy Leaves were stirred by the wind Against each other. On the train to London I had An epiphany: the mustard seed In my heart was alive and I could feel God's love And I had discovered its Eternal strength. Between Peterborough and Northampton, I looked to my right Out the car window and saw A perfect stand of trees: I saw the big sky of blue and Epic clouds. I smiled. I smiled as I drove towards Home.