Breaking Through


Forest feels like second skin by now,

beam upon beam raised in self-defence.

Logging permits don’t pass easily –

deforestation is distinctly painful.

But when pines part,

oxygen stirs,

canopy is cut,

there You are,

breaking through boughs,

 illuminating dark and stained cells,

ushering in daylight

where angels feared to tread.

And as dead branches fall,

tentacles tremble in triumph;

sap stirs

and green grows

and oh, the grace

of breaking through…




as through a glass darkly,

eyes seek out Your light.

Veils, be gone –

cataracts seek sun

as surfer seeks sea,

rest and restoration

no matter the weather.


dawn of my heart,

bloom in rainbows

where winter once reigned.

You’ve Been Benched

Sorry, garden, but you’ve been benched for the season.

Circumstances beyond my control

are making this decision final;

you played hard,

responded well to my input,

and never dropped the ball once,

but I’m afraid that this managerial dispute

is making it impossible to continue the game as we know it.

Can I give you a call

in about 6 months?

Woman of the World

Woman of the world,

your beauty glows in the sun;

your innocence is a beacon

which will draw men from far and wide

to trample on your freshness,

and pour disease and decay into your bones;

they will pin you up and objectify your flesh

and make of you something you are not –

a commodity,

a Thing to be owned and manipulated.

You will mark the seasons on a calendar,

and offer your bed to gain the intimacy you crave,

but ever and anon it will elude,

a mist,

something not to be grasped.

Your bloom will give way in time to others.

Their freshness will not show yours at best advantage,

and what sway you held in your tenuous castle will crumble at your feet.

You will wear a ring and bear young

and find solace in the vices afforded to you,

poverty draping your spirit like a veil,

a leech to suck your soul dry at its source.

Woman of the world,

how can this be?

Is this all that you can grasp?

Can you not hope for more for your daughters,

whose beauty shines in innocence,

drawing men like flies to the sacrificial lamb?

There is One who sees,

who loves,

who designs and creates in skilled purpose,

Whose hands give beauty as your gift, not your curse.

Rise up,

woman of the world!

Yours is a road to blessing,

despite the churlish use your counterparts clutch in strong hands.

Through you comes life,


feminine grace.

Your is a beauty of strength and dignity,

destined for more than

a peep show or bawdy house;

Yours is a value of infinite proportions.

You hold the power of relationship in your fair fingers.

Woman of the world,

I am one with you;

 I dream big dreams

that we will stand tall in our beauty,

innocence and purity intact,

to sprinkle our earth with peace and hope…

Lines Drawn in the Sand

Your branches rake the sky,

impotent fingers curled in grave-clothes

clutching pipe dreams of the Living Ones.

Your skin has long since

ceased to hold its contents,

draining your life’s blood into the sea

before being spewed onto the sand,

a jinxed Jonah, a shrivelled mummy with no sphinx

to mark your place.

In life,

you hatched egrets and expelled oxygen

and marked the seasons with your foliar calendar.

In death,

here you are,

washed up,

a beached whale

whose art is a shadow,

 lines drawn in the sand…