It is the night
before Easter,
the night
of the waiting day.

We are in the body
of the dark sky,
its breath
is cool on our skin.

We are walking
on the earth,
walking on the bones of it,
through the dark dunes,
through the quiet of them
towards the angry surf.

The sea is breaking on the stones,
breaking on the stones
over and over.

The roar of its fall
fills the shell of the sky,
fills the ear of our bodies.

We stand in its call
until we can hold
the force of it,
until it finds an echo
in our silence.

The air
held thought like sheep’s wool
on a wire, soft on a
barb, blowing white and blowsy
on a dark thorn.
Gathering it felt like
stripping the silence for my own need
to not be alone,
floating in the bones behind the universe
like a toy balloon used to
bumping and hurrying
along

-the breath of the stars,
the pause of the hours,
the threshold between now
and other, and dreams, 
and the scurrying beetles
of thought.

There is no wind
to lift a kite,
no stars garlanding
the night
to lift a dream,
just the beat
of heart and time
to mark the chance
a life can take,
not bound by bread
and circuses
but squirrelling
the happier days,
valuing
the people met
and letting wrongs
fall by the way.

Thanks for this oh so glorious day,
the white frosting the trees,
the roots hidden and holding,
the sun muted but listening,
the air waiting in branches
and all the warmth gathered
in the grey-brown of bare bark.

A still-life silhouette
waiting for a new season,
a naked landscape
minding the moment,
no rush and froth,
no hanging on to
last year’s favours,
no straining for
tomorrow’s buds of green.

A silent holding of space,
a frieze of stiff fingers in cotton gowns,
a meditation of grace.

The lights are strung,
the trees have come
inside
reminding us to celebrate
the return of nature
as well as the birth
of a child.

And have we tasted
all that was promised
when a child of God,
the son of a woman,
became the Son of Man?

That we too
have God in our veins
and love in our hearts,
and can help
meet the thirst
of this world.