The Blue Book


A single sacred ibis slides by
and I know you’re with us,
as the church like an inverted teardrop
runs with your soul and we,
still confused, wait behind,
baffled by the mystery of death
and suffering and joy and sadness
and life - this life - all this life
amongst fragrant memories,
oak and flowing time, ingrained,
as if each story we had to tell
was once a ring,
another layer of flesh we add
to the trunk to convince us
that we really are growing older,
growing up, gathering wisdom…

But the added story-flesh
just lets us dance
gracefully in the wind;
burn hotter and longer
when it comes time
to be consumed by light
and uncreated love,
quite at home with the white bird,
black head pointed to a far horizon.


Spirit Bird

The Black Page

The Shape of Stories