Example?
Outside our window a robin
Sings, then it's time to forage:
Diligently, relentlessly, he
Seeks, finds, carries back to his bush
By the door, his flower bed treasures,
Old grass, dead stems, mini twigs
All in service to his nest.
Purpose drives him ever on wards
His song is of satisfaction.
Where next?
The sign post where I'm standing
Is rubbed out, weathered by years.
Its fingers point to ' road-closed',
A brand new highway and two paths,
Muddy, unclear with few prospects.
Which way to proceed?
I may be here a while
Waiting for God's hand
To point the right way.
In time to come perhaps I will
Look back and to this pilgrim marker,
And know the choice was right.
Thursday March 23rd
Westminster
Impulse or planned?
Madman or terrorist?
Seeking death and glory
Or muddled, twisted and sick?
Death stained Westminster yesterday,
Like Brussels, Nice, Paris, Madrid.
We hear about it, watch dumb
With horror and wonder what contorted
Narrative played in his head.
Was he free thinking or programmed
By puppet masters who have not
Yet learned that humanity and
Compassion are stronger than hate?
March
Gardens are yellow in March:
Crocus first, starry celandine
Follow until the superstars, Daffodils,
In their glorious assemblies,
Raise their trumpets and holla
'Look at us'. Dandelions, lower
Down continue to multiply!
Meanwhile, hiding on the gentle
Primrose with its soft tones blending
A Brimstone feeds; the true
Herald of Spring has arrived.
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