There’s no dirt
like earth,
no rubitinyourfingers richness
that will grow me a green tree,
no other matrix
of microbe, mouldered leaf
and stone,
honeycombed with water and air,
furrowed by worms
for plunging roots.

So easy to despise
as dirt
the dust that forms our food,
that moors our bodies,
that links us to deeper mysteries –

the slow time of centred rock,
the cold holding of hot memories,
the love and lure
of dark gravity
as it pools and congeals
in whirls of magnetic coupling.

And spinning alone in space
with a jewelled face
our earthplanet,
twirling the sun
in a silent dance
to lift my soul

if I notice
what lives beneath my feet,
if I remember
what lies beyond the skies.


When I was a kid
I didn’t think there was anything there
where air reigns,
just the space between shapes and lives.
I didn’t think space mattered.


Can words burn?
Can a written voice be lost?
Once lit do they melt back into
the passion that pronounced them
ready to form new sounds
like a caterpillar preparing to fly?


Water falls in intimate, clinging caresses,
shape shifting to cover each surface
like words
so you don’t notice how heavy it is
when lying pooled and still
(though always ready to tip and slide
like mercury, like something alive)

My Father’s House (Luke 2.41-52)

Our father, my father,
I come into your house
like a pauper to a palace
and you receive me with
open doors, open arms,
open heart.