There comes a point where I have to go looking for God.
"What is this all about?"
Death. Restructuring. Cancer.
and the Democratic Republic of Congo...
Suicide.
Syria. South Sudan.
Gloves off
thrown in the face.
Honour is at stake.
We met at dawn.
I drew a dandelion
laboriously
in grey pencil.
He drew the sunrise
at the speed of light
and tipped the blades of grass
with dew.
The wildflowers faced the rising sun
and I was lost.
No paint bright enough.
No gold pure enough.
I can't do justice to it.
I can't do justice.
Love mercy.
Walk humbly
Unappreciated
Wild flowers grow and glow,
hated for their perseverance,
glorious in their persistence,
bringing invaluable gold to the wasteland
amidst the empty houses of delapidated estates,
indifferent to ideologies,
kerbstone colours,
ancestral legacies
and bank balances.
They warm and open
to simple sunlight,
are food for insects,
food for birds,
which bring song to barren streets
and silent building sites.
Enough
Enough that joy
seeps through the gloom and grey
Enough that life
peeps over decrepitude, dereliction and decay
Honour is at stake.
And life.
And where is God?
Not answerable to me.
Yet answers.
A kind of answer
And a kindly one.
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