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A Thousand Mornings
All night my heart makes its way
however it can over the rough ground
of uncertainties, but only until night
meets and is then overwhelmed by
morning, the light deepening, the
wind easing and just waiting, as I
too wait (and when have I ever been
disappointed?) for redbird to sing
Mary Oliver
Mid-morning in Lakeland – the light deepening, the wind easing – and I find myself wondering whether the late, great, Mary Oliver ever visited England, Ireland, Scotland or Wales. Driving down from Edinburgh bright and early today, I listened to a brief radio segment about a music lover’s neighbour not being especially bothered if he didn’t hear music. Not anti-music, just not much in need of it. And mindful of all that Handel’s Passacaglia (and more, oh and more!) brings to my life, I found myself also reflecting on my love for, need for, poetry. If it were not, I would miss it! – for every time I’m moved by, touched by, the sight, sound, scent, taste or touch of something, my heart, soul, mind and body are grateful for poetry’s being holder, explainer and expression; grateful for poetry’s being the diving board from which we continue to move gladly ‘to create’ – and thereby the more fully to live.
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