Author: andreaskevington

A poem for New Year’s Eve – Crossing the Blyth at sunset, at the turn of the year

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All the photos in this post were taken by my husband on a wild and stormy day at Walberswick.

The poem I’m sharing with you today was written at a previous New Year. We nearly missed the foot ferry between Southwold and Walberswick while out on a long winter’s walk with our family. It ran till sunset – and sunset was upon us. Today, I’m glad for this poem, glad I wrote it and by it am able to remember this magical evening at the turn of the year, the time we spent together on this Walberswick walk, and the strange feeling of being suspended between the two shores, the two closed gates, in the hands of the ferryman whose course was sure even though it seemed to slant so across the water.

So too with time, in the space between two years, when we look back at what has been, and look forward to what will be. We are glad to spend time with those we love, and perhaps especially miss those who are not with us. Love glimmers in this golden limpid darkness between times.

Perhaps in this space we can dream of a shore with warm, welcoming lights, with togetherness, with hope. Perhaps we may find we can be such a shore for each other, and keep lights of hope and welcome burning in the long cold nights.

May you have a blessed, happy new year. Thank you so much for your time and company on this blog. I value that gift very much.

I’ve shared with you another poem about winter walking along this shore, and a murmuration of starlings. Such an awe inspiring dance of togetherness. You can read that here.

Crossing the Blyth at sunset, at the turn of the year.

We walked fast towards the ferry –
nearly too late –
and saw the ferryman on the other side,
the gate closed behind him.
But we waved, and he came,
his blue boat a long wide
curve across the river.

Behind him the setting sun,
the treeshapes
black against the orange sky,
How beautiful it is.
He helps us on board,
offering me his hand
with nautical courtesy,
and then shuts the gate
firmly behind us.

So we thank him, and our blue boat
begins to churn those golden waters
rippling with a fast tide,
as we seem to hang for a time
between those two closed gates,
between those two jetties,
in neither one space, nor the other.
We are somewhere else instead,
where all is gold,
where darkness lies behind,
where the lights of the houses and
the wide-open pub are ahead of us,
lights that warm with the hope of welcome.

We are suspended for a while
in this Adnams-blue boat
with the diesel and the saltsmell
and the cry of the birds,
bathed in light, trailing
an ice hand in water
the same colour
as the light.
Here we are.
This moment.
Between two moments.
How beautiful it is.

Hope – the first Sunday in Advent

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I’ve noticed a few of you good readers have been searching out this post, so here it is again, for Advent Sunday 2024.

As the days have grown darker, and colder, I’ve been thinking about Advent, and hope. Traditionally, Hope is the theme of the first Sunday of the season, the first Sunday of the Church year too. Autumn seems to have been long, and restorative, and I’m not quite ready for winter. But here we are, nonetheless. And winter has its consolations.

I think there is wisdom in the old practices of having Advent as a time of quiet, reflective, waiting – a little like Lent before Easter. It’s so at odds with the flashing lights and loud shops and busyness, that understanding, but we can perhaps catch moments where those wintering practices are possible, and might help us….. pools of quiet light where we can breathe and think.

I’m also intrigued by the more medieval practice of putting yourself in the place of the people of Israel as they waited, not quite knowing what they were waiting for. Of not naming Jesus and Christmas, but instead allowing what we long for to be recognised and owned and prayed and worked for. In our context we join so many people throughout history who have felt the future to be shifting and uncertain, and who have longed for a kinder, gentler and more beautiful world. Taking some time to know and feel what we lack, what kind of world and lives we desire, might help us too face a troubling future with some courage and determination.

So Hope is a good place to begin.

Ah, hope. I’ve been turning over in my mind what it means to nurture hope in a world which seems increasingly unstable in climate and economics and culture. I’ve settled, for now, on making a distiction between hope and optimism. So, for me, I’m thinking of optimism as an opinion that things will work out. Something tied to outcomes. I see hope as a stance, an attitude of the heart and spirit, that it’s always worth looking for what brings life, for what is good. It does not require us to be naive about the dangers and difficulties around and within us. We are called to be as wise as serpents, and as gentle as doves – Matthew’s gospel.

Nonetheless, it’s worth working as if the world-as-it-could/should-be is here, emerging amongst us, small as the signs and growth may be. Not a glib avoidance strategy that it’s all fine, really, it’s all going to be fine…. but as a deliberate and courageous stance, holding on to a vision of how things could be.  With the cost of living crisis bringing fear and hardship, and with the climate noticiably more unstable, we need courageous hope that’s prepared to work to refashion things around us in defiance of what we see.  There is real power in such acts.

The picture of the bulbs and the bookmark at the top of this post relates to an action I took with some friends in our local high street to coincide with last year’s COP. We handed out bulbs and bookmarks, and encouraged people to think about ways they could plant hope. You can read more about that here.

Little Free Pantry at St Andrew’s Church, Melton

As Advent begins, we re-read the words of the prophets together.  They often spoke into desperate, unpromising circumstances with a mixture of a vision to hold in our hearts, and actions for our hands to do.  Those actions can be prophetic themselves, speaking out and making plain God’s dream for the world – a beautiful, hopeful vision strong enough to withstand hard times – brave enough to choose to be born to a poor family, who sheltered in a stable, and had to run from a murderous tyrant.  This is how hope was offered to the world, in the infant Jesus.

During this Advent series, I’ll share with you some extracts from my books.  Here’s something from The Bible Retold , as the retelling of the Hebrew scriptures comes to an end, and we look forward..

As the walls were rebuild, so were the people.  For God was building them into a new kind of kingdom.  Isaiah the prophet wrote: “This is how to truly serve me: unbind people who are trapped by injustice, and lift up those who are ground down.  Share your food with the hungry, and clothe the cold – that is how to live in the light!”

The people listened to his words of bright hope.  “There is much darkness in the world, but your light is coming!  All nations will be drawn to you, and they, too, will shine!”
….

“A child is born to us,
a son is given.
Authority will rest
on his shoulders,
and his names will be
Wonderful Counsellor,
Mighty God,
Everlasting Father,
Prince of Peace.
His kingdom, his peace,
will roll across the lands,
and he will reign on the
throne of David for ever.”

We give thanks for the work that is being done right now, in our communities, to clothe, and feed, and seek justice.  May we have the courageous vision to join with that work of light.

From Prayers and Verses

Scatter the darkness from before our paths.

(Adapted from the Alternative Service Book)

IMG_0930.JPG

The days are dark,
Dear God, give us your true light.

The days are dark,
Dear God, give us your true life.

The days are dark.
Dear God, give us your true love.

From Prayers and Verses

The Advent Candle Ring is from the good people at The Chapel in the Fields
It gives me great pleasure to know that the oak at the base was once a lectern, and the lighter wood on top a dining table.  The words written around it are from the ancient chants, the  “O” Antiphons. These chants came into being when people did not call for Jesus to come at Christmas, but instead used names from the Prophets – like Emmanuel, God with us – to name their hopes.  The first few centuries of the Christian Era saw these great prayers, the “O” Antiphons, sung during Advent, calling on Christ to come now, and to come again.
You can listen to the old chant, and read Malcolm Guite’s sonnet, and much more, here.

This coming week, let’s hold on to hope, look for signs of the life of God breaking through, and see where we can be part of that move towards a more beautiful, loving, hopeful world.

From the top photo…..

I made my bookmark with a stamp by the lovely Noolibird.

The plastic free bulbs are from Farmer Gracy

And the table is from Hannah Dowding Furniture

Sunday Retold: Christ the King

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Jesus Washing the Feet of his Disciples, by Albert Gustaf Aristides Edelfelt, (1854-1905)

This week, I thought I’d share with you my retelling of the reading many churches will be following this Sunday, in the spirit of Sunday Retold.

It explores themes of power, and so follows on from last week’s poem, Stones.
This week’s reading is that electrifying encounter between Jesus and Pontius Pilate – a trial of sorts. For the flow of the storytelling, I’ve taken a longer sweep than the set reading.

So here’s the story from The Bible Story Retold

At the same time, as dawn was breaking, the council gathered – elders, chief priests, teachers of the Law – and faced Jesus.
“If you are the Christ, the promised one, then tell us!” one said, rolling the words around his mouth as if they were bitter to his taste.
“If I told you, you would not believe me,” Jesus replied, holding him in his steady gaze.
“Are you the Son of God?” they asked.
“You are right to say so.”
At this they rose to their feet with an angry roar, and carried Jesus off to the palace of Pilate, the Roman governor, who had power to sentence people to death.
“This man is a threat to the peace – he claims to be Christ, a king, and opposes Roman taxes,” the accusers called out as Pilate circled around Jesus.
“Are you the King of the Jews?” he asked. Jesus felt the cold edges of the mosaic under his bare feet.
“Yes,” he replied. “But my kingdom is not like the kingdoms of this world.”
“So, you are a king!” Pilate responded.
“Yes! That is why I came, to speak the truth. Everyone who is on the side of truth will listen to me.”
“But what is truth?” Pilate asked. Then he went out to see the leaders and the people together. “I see no reason to charge him,” Pilate said. “This man has done nothing to deserve death. I will set him free.”
“No, set Barabbas free instead!” they cired. Now, Barabbas was a rebel who had killed a man.
They shouted louder, drowning out Pilate’s words: “He’s done nothing wrong! I will release him!”
But, with rising rage, the mob shouted, “Crucify crucify!” In the end, Pilate gave in: he set Barabbas free and handed Jesus over to the guards.
The guards tormented Jesus, the one called king. They draped a fine, purple robe around him, and twisted him a crown of sharp thorns to wear. They called out, “Hail, King of the Jews!” and fell on their kneeds before him, laughing. They spat on him, and struck his head with a staff. They, they took back the robe, and led him out to be crucified in his own simple clothes

Francisco De Zurbaran

We see how those who held religious power allied themselves with the Imperial power of Rome. I expect they were sure they were being faithful, upholding the law and their traditions, defending their faith as they saw it. Being certain you are right can lead you very astray. And we see too how Pilate saw Jesus very differently, one who had done nothing wrong, and yet seemed to have little power in the face of an angry crowd.

The biggest difference of all, to my mind, is in the understanding of what power is, what a kingdom is, who a king is. Those who are embedded in the power structures of this world, and, to be honest, the rest of us too, find it hard to imagine a different kind of power. One that follows a path downwards, even to death. One that washes the feet of the followers, that does not insist on its own place, but instead works through love, in humility, in radical engagement with the world as it is. We will soon be in Advent, preparing for the coming of Jesus. At that time we think of his unity and solidarity with frail humanity, born in such a humble way, amongst the extraordinary, ordinary, beloved people of Bethlehem.

Lord Jesus,
May our lives bear the mark of love.
As we are kind, as we share, as we are gentle,
may your love be seen in us.
Help us, for this is hard for us.

Dear God,
May I welcome you as my king:
King of peace,
King of love,
King in death,
King of life.

From my book of prayers to accompany The Bible Story Retold, Prayers and Verses


Poem: Stones. Sunday Retold.

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The open doorway of St Peter-on-the-Wall (founded about 660 AD). The wall in question is Roman. The chapel was built using some of the old stone from that wall. Bradwell, Essex.

I took a look at the set readings for this coming Sunday (17th November), and they are difficult and unsettling. Something about the Gospel reading caught my attention, and I thought I’d follow where that led.

Mark 13:1-8

 And as he came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher, what wonderful stones and what wonderful buildings!” 2 And Jesus said to him, “Do you see these great buildings? There will not be left here one stone upon another that will not be thrown down.”

3 And as he sat on the Mount of Olives opposite the temple, Peter and James and John and Andrew asked him privately, 4 “Tell us, when will these things be, and what will be the sign when all these things are about to be accomplished?” 5 And Jesus began to say to them, “See that no one leads you astray. 6 Many will come in my name, saying, ‘I am he!’ and they will lead many astray. 7 And when you hear of wars and rumours of wars, do not be alarmed. This must take place, but the end is not yet. 8 For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. These are but the beginning of the birth pains.

Once again in our world, we see wars, we see power misused, we see the places where we might put our hope and trust are frail. Just this week, the Church of England has been forced to reckon with terrible abuse that has taken place, and the failure of those in authority to protect the young. And COP 29 has opened with the absence of many leaders, and the presence of corruption – although I have been encouraged to see Kier Starmer taking a lead. Much that has seemed firm has been crumbling, and at the same time, forces which seem to be serving themselves seem very powerful, immovable. It’s a hard place to be for many, and we may need to give time to our fear and grief. We may need to find others with whom to walk through these hard places.

And so, turning to this reading, I see we are invited into something like a practice of deep realism, and a long view. We remember that for Mark’s early readers and listeners, this passage would call to mind the terror and trauma of the destruction of the Temple in AD 70 after a relentless seige by the Romans. The Roman historian Josephus records that 1.1 million people died during that time. It’s hard to imagine the suffering and shock of such loss. It must indeed have felt the end of the world. It was the end of the world for many. Even in the midst of such terror and shock, these words may have offered something to hold on to. Maybe there is some wisdom here about how to live through difficult times, when all seems destroyed, or we fear all may be destroyed. Such wisdom is arrived at through pain and loss, it is not intended as some kind of spiritual bypassing, that eveything is going to be fine. Everything is not fine. That much is clear.

So this poem, written in response to Jesus’ words, is an experiment in that long view. I hope that, if it lands with you at the right moment, it might resonate with you.

Stones

These beautiful stones
This beautiful Temple
all that wealth and power
all Herod’s might and posturing

Always, always can
and will be
thrown down.

And always, always, it is not
the end of all things
although it is the end.
For time still stretches out
among ruins lost to
twilight,
and dust settles, or
blows on the grey wind.

Strength seems invincible.
Stones seem solid, immovable.
The might and ritual of a temple
have such sure foundations
in the mind.

And yet time, wind, whispers,
armies, the running of water,
the roots of trees can and will
undo them all.

So do not be cowed
by these great walls,
for they will fall,
nor by their falling

For fall they must,
and the world will turn
and turn again, and what
was an ending may come
to seem the blowing of dry
leaves in autumn, an absence –
it may even, dare we hope,
begin to be birth-pangs, after all.

Gaia at Ely Cathedral. You can find more about that – including a poem – here.

You might enjoy this gentle conversation(Nomad Podcast) with the the musician Jon Bilbrough, known as Wilderthorn. Towards the end is some music recorded in the chapel pictured at the head of this post, St Peter-on-the-wall.


I’m turning back to that chapel in my mind – imagining how the stones from the old Roman wall, probably a fort, were reused in the building of this – itself ancient – place of peace and prayer.


Swords beaten into ploughshares, and things being made new.

New things can and do emerge, in time. That is something we can gather around, and work for.

From Prayers and Verses These are prayers in response to the stories of Exile we find in the Hebrew Scriptures, and I know that experience will resonate with many today. I hope this helps.

Poem: September. Bees. Ivy.

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This poem has arrived on the blog a little late. It became marooned in my notebook for a while, until I flicked through the pages and found it again. And although crowds of bees are no longer buzzing among the ivy, there are still a few, here and there.

I hope, though, that although this poem arose out of a particular time, it has something to say in other times, too. About stillness. About the restorative power of simply being, and paying attention. About finding our breath again. We all need that. We all need to feel that connection to the rest of the natural world (oh, how I wish we had better language for these things – bear with, it will emerge) which grounds us, and from which we can rise. For those reading this blog who need a little peace right now, I hope it helps. I’m thinking particularly of dear readers in America, where the election atmosphere seems turbulent. I wish you well over the next days and weeks.

The old hedgeline in front of our house has, in places, been overcome by ivy, which has formed its own structures and patterns of flowering and fruiting. Cutting some of it back to make space for other plants to grow, I was careful to leave the ivy flowers for the bees – which will become fruit for the birds in time. Accidentally, I created a little bower, where I put a chair and sat for a while. As I sat I gradually heard the road less and less, as my attention was taken up with the many bees who were enjoying the feast. And so, this poem emerged.

thebiologist.rsb.org

September. Bees. Ivy.

It is taking a while,
this sitting
in a carved out cave
in the ivy.
Just sitting,
stilling, breathing.
A bower of green leaves
above, and above that
blue sky, white clouds.

In time, the hum of bees,
and their intricate woven
patterns of flight,
come to replace thoughts,
become another form
of thought.
So too the birds –
that wren shaking
the leaves, and
the pipping robin.

And this grey and green lacework
of wild is all that separates
me from the roar of the road –
those black lines we make,
always going
somewhere….

And yet, here is a marvel.
More bees than I have
seen all year.  A hum that soothes
the soul. The darkness of butterflies.

These strands of green woven
through the world – not enough,
by no means enough –

But they shelter the bees,
and me. A space for
the soft and alive,
breathing, green in spirit.
We can be here, the bees and me.
We can be, in this hollowed out
hedge, in a cloud of lightfilled wings.

Poem: Mid October Heat

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After some cold damp days, and flooding in some parts of the country, it’s warm and mild – about 6oC above recent average for this time of year. I find myself to be both delighted and unsettled by this lovely soft warmth. I’ve been able to get on with a bit of clearing and composting in patches, it feels like time this year, and making space to ensure the ivy doesn’t take over completely.

I’ve been able to sit in the sun and watch the rising and falling of insects. After the desolate summer of so little life on the wing, this has been such a joy. It is also an encouragement to keep a wild diversity of flowers in the garden, native and from further south, as the insects appear unexpectedly, at strange times. This autumn it feels time, having left it for a few years, to introduce some disturbance and give a chance for a variety of plants to grow. But apart from enjoying the welcome rays, I have also been aware of the wind and rains this extra warmth carries in its wake.
So this poem is an exploration of this turbulence of feeling.

Mid October heat

The sun shines long and low,
as warm as sudden laugher,
a broadening smile
blown in from the south
and damp with oceans,
I can almost smell the tropics
on its strange soft breath.

What do you do with so much
disquieting beauty – with a day
like this, shining, wild and hot,
damp with fever?

The low sun holds too much warmth.
The green around me hums
and sings with growth, rejoicing,
even as the leaves of the trees fade
a little, and tumble across the grass
on this wild hot wind.

I am afraid.
I look up at the strange flows
of air and water above me,
shifting and changing,
heavy and thick,
as the dragonflies rise still,
hunting among gnats,
and the bees hum in this late flowering –
at last, the bees, and here a
hummingbird moth, and
red admirals, all
drunk with sweetness
in these late days.  These late days.

Poem: Jacob’s Dream and Awakening. Sunday Retold.

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Hello. This week I’ve been taking a look at the readings many churches follow on Sunday, and found something coming up this week that has sparked my interest, and led to some contemplation. A poem has emerged, as they sometimes do. I’m not sure I can say it’s finished, but it is settled for now, and I’d like to share it with you. Those who have been looking at this blog for a while – thank you – may remember that I’ve a thread running through it called Sunday Retold, which includes extracts from my book, The Bible Story Retold in Twelve Chapters.

Jacob's ladder

This beautiful illustration by Sophy Williams is from another edition of the same text, published as The Lion Classic Bible

Here’s my retelling of Jacob’s dream:

Jacob went alone, travelling until it was dark.  Shivering in the chill of the desert night, he took a stone for a pillow, and lay down to sleep.  As Jacob slept, a dream came to him.  He saw a ladder, with its feet on the ground, stretching up and up to heaven.  In his dream, he watched as God’s bright angels travelled up and down in between heaven and earth.  And in his dream, God himself was there……

Jacob woke with a jolt and looked around.  He was alone.
“God was here and I didn’t know it!  This place is the gate of heaven!” he said  Then he took the stone he had slept upon and set it up as an altar to God. He poured oil on it as an offering, and worshipped there. Starting out once more, he left his homeland far behind.

You can read the original here, Genesis 28: 10-17, it’s the set reading for this week. It’s a story which has spoken to many over the centuries, revealing depths of meaning. For me, this time, I was struck by the way comfort came to one who was a fugitive, who had lost all that was precious to him. It also speaks to me of how our perception can shift, and we can be illuminated with a new understanding, how we can find the simplest things holy.

Jacob’s dream and awakening

Night can fall suddenly
on the road, when alone.
Darkness sweeps in
like a flood,
and one who lived with
others, a dweller
among tents, is out
in open country now.

Alone, he chooses a stone
and rests on cold rock

And finds that to the fugitive,
the lonely, the guilty one,
dreams may come.
And company, too, of sorts –
strange, perhaps luminous –
angels ascending and
descending

And a presence, such a presence,
that is here, and now.
One who is above the angels,
and right beside him, and speaks
with that deep resonance
that comes through dreams.


Perhaps those away
from the knottiness and rush
of their own mind can
know that this stone,
and so every stone,
is the gate of heaven,
shining with oil.
That this place, and so
every place,
is where God is

That this dream-night
can change the day-heart
of one who walks away.
For even the stones have a
sheen of brightness now,
wherever they are.

From my companion collection, Prayers and Verses through the Bible

If you’d like to use any of my material, please feel free to do so, acknowledging this blog as the source. It’s always a great encouragement when people let me know where my writing has been read.

Poem – Wasp

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Firstly, an apology if you don’t like wasps. I promise this is the only photo you’ll see here. If you can bear to persevere and read the poem, you’ll see how I’ve shiften a little in my view of them, and I hope that might help.

Picture – Gedling conservation trust – Common wasp

Thank you for bearing with me as I took a bit of a break from writing here over the summer. I do hope to share more with you as the days shorten and outside is a little less enticing.

There are notes in my notebook, ready for some further sharpening of my pencil. One of the things that’s really struck me this year has been the absence of insects here in the UK. Wet and cold earlier in the year, while not newsworthy compared to other weather events, seems to have stricken many of our insects and affected those birds and bats who feed off them. I am pleased to see the garden lighting up with wings, late as it is, and that has lifted my spirits. It’s been a strange, unsettling time, though, looking at the flowers that normally draw bees and butterflies, and finding them empty. I’ve wondered when to cut the meadows down, and left it late, so the last flowers might provide something for these missing friends.

Earlier in the year. A feast spread, but where are the guests?

The Butterfly Conservation trust have just published the results of their Citizen Science Survey, and found that the numbers are very low this year. You can read more about that here.

It’s also been strange to enjoy picnics without being troubled by wasps. I have been suprised to find I miss them, and worry about how they’re doing.

And so this morning, I saw a wasp. One of so few this year. And I wrote this.

Wasp

This morning, eating breakfast, slow,
I heard a buzz and a tap against
the light-streaming windows.

Buzz and tap, buzz and tap.
I turned, saw a wasp on the window,
and felt joy rising, and knew how
strange it was to feel that joy
at the sight of her –
joy, and compassion, too,
as she bumped and bumped
against our shining window.

Oh, hello, I whispered,
Don’t be afraid,
you’ll be out in no time!

And, glass and paper in hand,
I released her.  She lingered
a moment on the rim,
gently waving her stinger
up and down, then spread wings,
flew into the clear September
light, bright with late flowers.

And I laughed.  Years ago,
I would have flapped her away,
swatted her even, afraid.
And here I was, whispering to a wasp.
Years ago, there would have been
hundreds.

Not this one solitary marvel,
striped, miniature perfection,
buzzing and beautiful,
in search now of the
sweetness of a fallen apple,
the ivy thick with bees.

Precious, so precious.
Late as it is, I am learning
how precious life is.

Edit: 11th November 2025

I was sent this film of the poem by Joseph Davidson. Do watch it, it’s very good.

Poem: The most beautiful thing, for Earth Day

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Monday is Earth Day, when many of us especially remember the gifts of the Earth, its fragility, and our responsibilities towards it. Today (Saturday) in my town we’re having a bit of a celebration down by our river, focusing on good local food and organisations which are seeking to care for our patch of Earth. There’s music and friendship and crafts and storytelling, and local businesses who are doing things differently – beautiful local bread and saffron and wild venison and plants and flour ground by our tide-mill among other things. It’s a good way to mark the occasion.

This spring, I’ve been enjoying Simon Armitage’s beautifully illustrated new collection, Blossomise, in collaboration with the National Trust. I highly recommend it. It’s a celebration of the blossom season, transient and determined, which for us starts in February with this lovely cherry plum, or mirabelle, and is carrying on from one tree to another in our growing collection of fruit trees. We have one apple who is always alarmingly late, but the buds are beginning to swell. Maybe by mid May, if its mild, it may offer the season’s swansong. I also highly recommend the beautiful Orchard by Benedict McDonald and Nicolas Gates – I sent a copy to my MP as a gift when she was Secretary of State for the Environment.

I have been thinking of the Japanese love of blossom, and how it’s fleeting ephemeral nature makes it so precious to them, and to the rest of us. In some ways, it’s a modest theme for such an expansive day – when we consider the whole of this green Earth, but I kept being drawn back to it, so here we go. I think what draws me to it is twofold: there’s something about the dazzling beauty of blossom which is so transient, so easily lost which reminds me of the beauty of all the trees, and oceans, and rivers, the great all of the good Earth which we love and are harming and are called to tend and care for. And secondly, there is the draw of the particular. When I look at the big picture, I am often overwhelmed and frequently despairing, and so I choose to focus on the small, the local, the actions I can take for the trees in my area, the bats who will soon be flying over my garden, the sorry state of my – of our – local river. So this poem I’m sharing with you for this day is, like blossom, small and light.

The most beautiful thing

Outside, the blossom is in full glory now,
white star-flowers, delicate as tissue,
on black, angled branches –
like a print by Hiroshige.

I gathered a blown branch
from the ground, and brought it
in to shimmer on my mantelpiece
in a tall green bottle.
It is the loveliest thing in the room,
the loveliest thing I might call mine –
mine, perhaps, not as possession,
but in relation – as in sister
of mine, the dancing blossom tree.

For dance she does as the
cold wind blows,
gusting and wild,
in a snowstorm of petals
that dress the air about her.

And sister she is too, although
the resemblance is slight.
We share kinship in
chilly breezes and soft rain,
nourished alike by this deep
dark soil, and made of it,
depending on the same
gifts of Earth for our
brief time of flourishing.
This felt kinship, truly the
most beautiful thing,

As like her, I dance in the
gusting wind, and like her,
I look for tomorrow
and the promise of sun,
and birdsong,
and I too hope for
the gentle buzz of bees
and the fruit that is to come.

Hiroshige blossom

If you are looking for readings for Earth Day, you might find something on this blog to suit. Please feel free to use my work, saying where you found it.

Here are a few suggestions, but if you search by Nature, Creation, Green, there will be many others

Gaia at Ely Cathedral
Enough
What might it mean, to live well on a dying earth
Rooted
I hear the song of the earth
A parable
The grace of seeds

I thought I might mention here a few podcasts I like to listen to – I’ll just name them as there are so many different podcast providers. A thing I am noticing amongst those who are working with the land and especially the rewilders is the most deep sense of joy, purpose and accomplishment. There is a rising change in our relation to the rest of the natural world, and perhaps a thing we can all do is cultivate a love and practical care of our place, and find others to work with. So, here are some listening suggestions….

The Jane Goodall Hopecast
The Knepp Wildlands Podcast
Rewilding the World with Ben Goldsmith
The Rewild Podcast with James Shooter
Learning How to See with Brian McLaren – latest season is Seeing Nature
Wild Podcast by Grange Project
How to Save a Planet (for a more North American emphasis)

A little tree rehoming scheme……Some of the saplings dug up from my garden and very kindly donated by others. I’ve passed on about 270 now to local people who are planting woods, orchards and hedgerows. Strangely, it seems to be a notion that has found its moment!

Happy Earth Day.
May the place where you live flourish. May the places your food grows be bountiful. May your air and water be clean and life-giving.

Poem: Poured out and overturned – Sunday Retold: Turning the tables

/ andreaskevington / 6 Comments

Christ chasing the money changers from the temple Raymond Balze

Hello again.
Here’s another post combining a look at the reading many churches will be following on Sunday, and a poem which emerged as I read it and read it again. So it draws on my occasional series Sunday Retold, and my practice of dwelling imaginatively with the story, meditating on it, and seeing what arises.

Firstly, the Gospel reading from my retelling The Bible Story Retold in Twelve Chapters.

Jesus went into the Temple courts, and found them choked up with stalls and salesmen, ringing with the shouts of hawkers and hagglers. People were not gathering for worship: they were changing their money into special Temple coins, and buying birds for Temple offerings. Jesus grabbed the traders’ tables and threw them over. The money changers and the dove sellers shouted angrily while the coins clattered and rolled across the stone floor. “You’ve taken ‘the house of prayer’ and turnind it into a ‘den of thieves’!” Jesus said, and all fell silent at his words.
Then, the blind and the lame came to him and were healed. And children came, too, running and shounting, “Hosanna to the Son of David!” The Temple was filled with joy, and the priests and teachers of the Law drew back, muttering angrily.

From The Bible Story Retold, based on Matthew 21

One of the things I found while working on this retelling was that there was always so much more I wanted to explore – so much depth and meaning hinted at, or concealed by years and culture and translations. My practice in writing the book was to read widely, and then to meditate on the passages in the style of Lectio Divina – imagine myself into the story, and allow it to unfurl in my mind – a mind with questions, open to prompting I hope. So with this one, there was so much here about Jesus’ rage at the commodification of the things of God, making what was freely given into a commercial venture. We are so used to everything falling into the realm of money it can be hard to imagine how things could be any different, or how the realm of God might offer a radically different Way. Jesus spoke more about money than about prayer, and yet it’s a difficult subject to explore for us. So many of the ills and injustices and exploitation of the natural world we are currently experiencing suggest to me that something has gone wrong with the way we view and use money. Can we begin to dip into the realm of gift, generosity, and finding ways to do what is necessary and right? I hope so.

The Little Free Pantry at St Andrew’s Church, Melton. An example of gift, of sharing. Apologies for the soft focus!

And so, to the poem which came out of my reflections. The meaning of gift and the exchange that arose in my imagination on reading the passage was many layered, and I hope the poem can be read a number of ways depending on what chimes with you the reader. It draws from the Mattew 21 passage, as above, but also the passage early in John’s gospel (John 2).

Poured out and Overturned

Some things cannot be bought
and yet, they are. See
those neat piles of coins,
counted carefully, those inkmarks
methodically made, those
animals sold for sacrifice,
coins given for prayers, for favour,
for the words and work of God.

His carpenter’s hands gripped
the smooth grained tables and
upended them.  Poured out the
shimmering piles of coins
rolling and chiming
over the stone floor.

Some things, perhaps, once, all
are freely given – life, air, water,
growing things for food, breath,
beauty, favour, love.  So many
things we lay out in rows,
so many tables, so many
neat marks of ink or light.

Bound, we see no alternative,
cannot imagine another way,
and yet, here is a man throwing
coins to the floor, with a whip
to drive out money changers
while wooden tables lie
groaning on their sides.

Set free, then, what happens in
this space, this chaos,
with all our reckoning upended?
The blind and the lame come,
and are healed.
And the children run and shout
Hosanna.
And what is, and what will be
is all gift.
So it is, and may it be so.

John 2:13-22, Matthew 21:12-17

Elisabeth Frink, Chapel of the Transfiguration, St Edmundsbury Cathedral.

I notice that some of you good people are looking up resources for Easter on this blog. Thank you for considering my work. If it helps, here’s a link to a summary……
Please feel free to use my writing in any way that helps, mentioning my name and this blog. And do feel free to let me know, I do love to hear where it gets to!

Edit: Sunday 3rd March.

I’m absolutely delighted to find my poem below at Diana Butler Bass’ The Cottage.  She shares an informative piece on this passage which I’ve found has helped me understand what can be a puzzling story. Do read it if you haven’t already. I hope this link will take you there…..

https://open.substack.com/pub/dianabutlerbass/p/sunday-musings-b9b?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=46vq

Further edit… I seem to be having difficulty clicking through on this link. She has included one of my Mary of Bethany poems in another recent post if I’ve whetted your appetite and you can’t find Overturned…. try this.

If you search for her name on this blog, you will find other poems and other links.