Still here


To lean on this gate
is to meditate
upon millions of
comings and goings

cattle, sheep, squirrel
racing clouds, windswept
hedge and tree, farmer
headed home for tea

field, fells, road, sky and
the buzzard’s sharp cry
set in silence and
presence and absence

of grandfathers and
shepherds and horses
and scythes, caps and coats
old ploughs and voices

across the lichened
centuries and the
penuries, still here


Questions and no answers

Make no mistake, I only achieve simplicity with enormous effort. As long as I have questions and no answers I’ll keep on writing.

Clarice Lispector
Hour of the Star

There’s no music without depth of silence upon which to paint notes. Often I have shared my love of ‘silent music’ – the spaces in between. Absence of answers, the unfinished, the infinite, the eternal, the questions – are as important to me as expressed chords and symphonies, every bit as important to me as the words I yearn to read, and shape upon my tongue, and set down upon a page, and have engraved upon my heart, occupying my days and nights, my soul-work, my love, my leisure.

It’s not arriving, or the making of judgments, proclamations, speeches or songs that draws me towards the eternal. It’s living with questions that have no trite answers. Writing, reading, making poetry and prayer, long-savouring notes and words, meditating before the great backdrop of silence. Effort. Gratitude. Occasionally glimpsing an Eden of simplicity.