Creation

The Little Christmas Tree – the power of kindness

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The new editions of my first story are making their way into bookshops ready for Christmas, and I know that some of you are coming across them. That’s so good, and a little bit exciting!

It’s given me the opportunity to take another read of the story, and think about it in the context of the world we’re living in now, and I’ve noticed something else.

Previously, I’ve thought about it telling a story into our shifting and stormy climate – and you can read more about that here. Today is the first day COP 30, so it seems particularly appropriate to be thinking of the importance of woods to regenerate our land, how important it is to treasure the natural world and give it space and time to return to strength and function. (If you’re not familiar with Prince William’s Earthshot Prize, I would commend that to you as a hopeful, active antidote to political wranglings – necessary as these may be.)

I’ve also thought about it as a version of Mary’s radical, prophetic message in the passage we refer to as the Magnificat, and you can read more on that here. And once again, the contrast she draws between the mighty and powerful, and the hungry, speaks directly into our unequal world.

What’s been on my mind this year is the matter of welcome – how we welcome, or not, those who have to flee their homes.

I love Lorna Hussey’s warm and intricate illustrations. Thank you Lorna!

In the story, a storm rips into the wood, and the animals are looking for a place to shelter. They find one in the branches of a little fir tree, who welcomes them in. When I first told the story to my own children years ago, I never thought such an action might be controversial, or political. It was simply a practice of kindness, empathy, hospitality. These have always been regarded as Christian virtues, and those who read the scriptures will be well aware that welcoming strangers, and treating the poor and the vulnerable with compassion, is commended again and again. These qualities are upheld by ethical systems in all cultures across the world. And yet, here we are.

Of course, the global situation is complex, and it’s vital we have good, fair systems which work for all people. Of course, those who profit from exploiting those who are seeking sanctuary should be prevented and brought to justice. Those things are part of the empathy, and the welcome. It is the shift of heart which troubles me, towards hostility and violence towards those who have in all probability already experienced a great deal of it.

Can we reconnect with our deep, inbuilt response to the troubles of others – to seek to help how and where we can? Just up the coast here in Suffolk houses are being bulldozed as the sea bites ever bigger chunks out of the coast. Of course, there’s no comparison with those in the Caribbean and Asia who are suffering the most appaling tragedies from our changing climate, but it’s enough to awaken some fellow feeling, and to imagine how little it would take to find ourselves displaced and relying on kindness – both the kindness of individuals and the kindness of efficient, just and compassionate systems.

In the story, it is the Little Christmas Tree who welcomes the animals, and we share the warmth and compassion and richness that comes from that simple act. There is real joy in it. The book ends with a kind of party.

We can think too of the first Christmas, where a displaced mother was offered somewhere to have her child, and soon after the family became refugees in Egypt running from a tyrannical and jealous Herod. I’ve written about in the link above.

There is much need of kindness, and it is as precious and profound as ever. Perhaps we can remember times when we have both given and received when in need, how good that was – difficult, sometimes, but good.

As we approach Advent, let’s see if we can cultivate kindness, and welcome, and look for local ways to help people who may need it most.

The book is available in two editions, a hardback and a board book. You can order them from your local bookshop, or the usual online places.

Here are a few links:

Direct from the publisher here

Online Bookshop.org supporting local bricks and mortar ones here in the UK here

Eden bookshop

I’m delighted that it’s widely available in the USA too.

Poem: Gaia at Ely Cathedral

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I’m sharing this post again, September 2025 as part of the Season of Creation some Christian traditions are marking at this time. Meanwhile, I’m continuing to work on a collection of poems for Wild Goose, The Year’s Circle – and this poem is part of that work. I’ll be sharing more on that as we go along.

I hope you find this post a helpful starting point for contemplation.

Additional note, 24th September 2023. I am delighted that this post has appeared at The Cottage, Diana Butler Bass’ rich and thought-provoking Substack, this morning. I’ve admired her work for many years, and it’s such an honour, and very exciting for me, to find myself in her company today, under Inspiration. It’s a profound exploration of envy and gratitude, and a reflection on the deep drivers of our climate and ecological crisis. It’s well worth reading and allowing it to do its inner work on us. You can do so here.

Original post, published 12th July 2021, emerging from lockdowns:

As we are beginning to venture out a little more, we thought we would pay a visit to Ely, and the vast indoor space of its ancient cathedral. They often have contemporary art there, which helps the old stones continue to sing, giving a new perspective on ancient truths. We knew that Gaia, an installation by Luke Jerram, was going to be there in July, and so we went and saw this beautiful, astonishing sight. The comparative emptiness of the cathedral space made it all the more powerful as it floated above us.

And as the space is vast, and it takes time to walk up to, around and beyond the piece, you do have time and space in which to allow the work to speak to you, to stir up responses, and to pray. I am sure that one of the intentions is to give us all an opportunity to experience something like “earthrise”, when the astronauts first saw the whole of the Earth from space, and how that shifted their perspective, and began to change the way all of us are able to see our home. The staggering, indescribable beauty of the whole called out my sense of awe, which sat uncomfortably alongside my awareness of the damage we are doing to our precious, unique home.

In the setting of the cathedral, as Gaia hangs in the nave under the painted ceiling which tells the long stretch of the Bible’s story, I found the language of repentance surprisingly, and helpfully, came to mind. Repentance both in our more familiar understanding of sorrow for wrongdoing, and desire to amend, and in the possibly more ancient meanings carried in the old texts, of returning home, and of undergoing a profound change of mind – a paradigm shift in the way you see.

Much of my writing celebrates the beauty of the natural world, how lovely, precious, and vulnerable it is. But sometimes, that love spills over into grief. So the old stones, and the old story, seemed illuminated by our current crisis, and, in turn, those ancient words seemed to express something necessary, and powerful, and, in the end, with the potential for hope.

You can listen to the poem here.

Gaia at Ely Cathedral

She seems to float, lit up with her own light,
slowly turning, blue and blooming with clouds
as we walk up, look up, small before her.

While above our steps,
the familiar painted roof
rolls on, telling its painted story,
from the tree, and the garden,
on towards this

fathomless shining beauty,
the ‘all’ that was so very good
in that beginning.
Now as she turns
we see how she hangs
below the story’s last scenes –
the gift of a beloved child
held on his mother’s lap,
held forward towards us,
loved and given and giving,
and the wounded golden king,
who gives still.

And below, below hangs the whole shining Earth,
dazzling, vast with sea,
turning and flowering with clouds
from the southern ice-shine,
melting although we do not see her weep,

And the land, those small green swathes
and swags, are dressed in white too,
a veil of vapour,
while the deserts spread brown
and red above our eyes.

The lands are small, countries
seem tales we tell.
What is certain is this one great
flow – ocean and ice and cloud –
and the unseen winds that bear them
through our blue, breathing air.

And the people stand beneath her,
lit by ice, and hold up their hands
as if to carry her, or hold her,
or save her from falling.

How beautiful it is.
How strange and wondrous
that we should be creatures
who live within so much living perfection.

And as she turns slowly
under the child and the king,
I wonder, what do those
familiar words mean now,
‘the sins of the world’,
as the stain of our reckless harm
seeps through the blue and green,
through all this living glory,

And is there any hope in our
waking up to beauty with grief
and loss, even as dust and ashes
float across the sky,
across us all, late as we are
in our repenting?


And is there hope,
hope that we might be granted
this grace – time
for amendment of life,
to tend the garden
with its leaves and fruit,
shining and greening,
to take part in the work
of loving and healing,
of restoration,
of making all things new.

Looking at Gaia from behind the communion table brought to mind the words of repentance from that service, and I was aware of my sense of what “the sins of the world” might mean was creaking open a little wider.

Very unseasonal Book News! The Little Christmas Tree – a new edition and a new format

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Just in case some of you are very organised people who like to plan ahead for Christmas, you might like to know that a new hardback edition of this beautifully illustrated book is coming out on August 22nd.

It was my first book and I love it, and I’m thrilled it’s coming out again for a new audience. And if you have little ones in your life who are of an age for a board book, it’s coming out as one of those too – publication date for that is 26th September. That edition is slightly abridged, but with all the delightful pictures of woodland animals by the very talented Lorna https://www.instagram.com/lornahusseyillustrator/.

To those who follow this blog from the USA, the publishers were keen to say that the book will be available over the Atlantic, too.

Both can be pre-ordered now. Pre-orders do help with publicity and planning, so if you feel inclined, it would be a great encouragement. Meanwhile, the paperback version is still available.

If you are lucky enough to have a local bookshop, they can get them for you. Here’s a link to the publisher’s website for online orders. Of course, it’s also available in all the ususal places for ordering books.

Here’s how it begins…

And you can read more about it elsewhere on my blog, for example…

The Little Christmas Tree – a beautiful BSL video telling of the story.

The Little Christmas Tree – a few pictures!

The Little Christmas Tree – I’ve been thinking ….

Thank you all for your support and encouragement. My mind has been full of the poems I’m weaving together for my poetry collection lately, and I’m aware I haven’t been posting on here quite as often as sometimes – I’ll try to keep remembering to do that! And next year, there’ll be lots to share!

Sunday Retold, Poem: Ascension

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I’m continuing to share with you some poems I’m working on for a new book, The Year’s Circle, which will be out next year – with Wild Goose of Iona Publishing. You can read more about that here.

As I’m settling into the work, I’m finding it so rewarding. I love looking for threads and connections between things, and so I’m weaving together poems which follow the pattern of the church year and poems drawn from nature. I’ve always found the natural world rich with image and meaning, and that is particularly true of the wild beauty of late spring.

This poem has been a bit of a knotty one to unravel, but now I think it’s settled and working. I’m giving it to you a little early, in case anyone is looking for a poem for Ascension (this year, Thursday 29th May) . At the beginning of the book of Acts we find this account of Jesus being taken up, and I have been wondering about what it might mean for us.

I thought first of what it must have been like for his friends, a kind of second losing. They are still caught up in their concerns – they are still thinking of a kingdom with power and borders. And every day, now, we are seeing the pain of kingdoms and borders, the terrible suffering of the people of Gaza and the long history of cause and effect that leads to children, the frail, the displaced and the wounded – starving. It’s shocking and distressing. I find those images fill my inner vision as I read the words of the disciples. And I notice that their nationalistic hopes do not align with the task set them by Jesus.

I have wondered about the complete change in perspective that Jesus seeks to share. I think it might help us, and give us a way of seeing that opens us up to a better way.

He is not speaking of kingdoms with borders. He is sending them out – over borders, without consideration of the divisions between peoples we might make – to the whole earth. A shift in thinking, a higher, more inclusive view. So, in this poem, I try to explore that shift.
The poem has two strands. The experience of Jesus’ friends as he slips away from them, and this wider way of seeing he invites them to share.

Hidden/All things  – Ascension

Perhaps it had seemed a partial
parting, a gradual letting go.

In life, they had lived with him,
travelled dusty roads,
slept under stars,
ate bread and shared a cup.

Then, after that dark Friday,
that bright Sunday, there
came these strange, sudden
meetings, brief comings and goings,
words they found hard
to understand – such
puzzling reassurance.

And still they ate together,
and he spoke of another
presence who would
come to them, be with them.
And despite their questions
of nations and times,
his was always a wider vision.


Always wider and other
Out to the old enemy
and the ends of the earth
Everywhere and everyone

And then at last they came
to this last parting,
and he was taken up
in rolling clouds and
hidden from their sight,
a long perspective
they could not yet share

that saw the whole blue
green turning Earth and all things –
things in heaven and things on earth –
holding together  reconciled
all very good and all beloved.
Above all, beloved.

Acts1:1-11
Colossians 1:15-20

This image is of Gaia by Luke Jerram, when it was at Ely Cathedral. As I’m playing with the arrangement of poems in The Year’s Circle, I’ve placed my poem inspired by this artwork in a group that follows this one on the Ascension – a group that begins to explore our perception of the Earth as an interconnected whole. You can read the Gaia poem here.

And, in the spirit of the original Sunday Retold, here are some passages which might be of interest.

‘The disciples never knew when Jesus would appear among them – but appear he did, telling them more about the kingdom of God, and kindling hope in their hearts.
“Wait in Jerusalem and you will receive God’s gift. You remember how John baptized with water? In a few days, you will be baptized with the Holy Spirit of God.”
Another time they asked him, “Lord, will Israel be a great kingdom again now?”
“That’s not for you to know. The Holy Spirit will come and fill you with power, and then you will tell everyone what you have seen and heard. Start in Jerusalem, and Judea, but then go out beyond Israel to Samaria, and even further – to the whole earth!”
Then Jesus was lifted up, above and beyond the earth, and a cloud hid him…….’

From The Bible Story Retold

Ascension Day
‘Christ has no body now on earth but yours, no hands but yours, no feet but yours…. Yours are the feet with which is to go about doing good, and yours are the hands with which he is to bless us now.’
St Teresa of Avila

From Prayers and Verses

Book News! Early notice, poetry book on the way.

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I’m so delighted to be able to share with you that I’ve just popped a contract in the post for my first published collection of poetry. Some of you will know the publisher, Wild Goose of Iona, and they’ve been so kind and efficient in coming to an agreement about what we’d like to do together. It should be out next year.

We plan to call it The Year’s Circle, and I intend it as a collection to accompany you through the year. It will weave together poems drawn from Bible stories marking the seasons, such as upcoming Easter, with poems drawn from nature – so the two main strands of work you will find on this blog. I hope it will be good for your own reading and also sharing together with others in groups, churches and festivals. I know many of you already use the poems you find here in those ways.

The Celtic tradition has an idea of God’s two books – the Bible and Creation – and I’m intrigued by that idea and am looking forward to exploring what it might mean.

The collection will include some of the poems you’ll find here as well as new work. I intend to share progress with you as I go along – giving you tasters of the new poems, as well as some insight into the process.

I want to thank you all for being here, for your support and encouragement. It’s played a huge part in making this new venture possible, and I really look forward to including you in the process.

I’m blown away by this opportunity, it’s so good, and I’m really looking forward to getting going with drawing together something beautiful and nourishing in these difficult times. I really hope it helps.

Poem: Water and Dove – Baptism. Sunday Retold

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Piero della Francesca, The Baptism of Christ. National Gallery, London.

This coming Sunday many Christian communities are continuing to think of Epiphany, or epiphanies – those moments of clarity, of breakthrough, when you see things anew, or perhaps for the first time. In particular, there are readings to follow which tell us of Jesus’ baptism by John in the Jordan river. It’s a moment when everything seems to change – where we see one who closely resembles a prophet from the Hebrew scriptures, and one who tells us that the Kingdom of God is so close, already among us – standing together in a river. The reading is Luke 3:15-17,21-22. I’m posting a link to the whole chapter, though, as it gives us some very helpful reflections on “What should we do?” as signs of a change of heart, as well as the beautiful and hopeful passage from Isaiah.

I love the picture at the top of this post. I love its lines, its clarity and purity. I have a framed poster very like this one, and see it every day. I’ve often wondered at the river stopping, diverting around this moment of baptism. I assume della Francesca was thinking of the story in the book of Joshua, when the priests carrying the arc of the covenant step into the Jordan, and the waters dry. The people then cross the riverbed. In doing so they leave their time in the wilderness, and it is an echo of the time they entered it by crossing the Red Sea, escaping slavery in Egypt as they did so. This time, crossing the Jordan, God’s presence is suggested by the Arc of the Covenant, rather than the pillar of fire and flame that was with them at the beginning of their journey. It’s quite a change. You can read the story here if you’re interested.

And so, to the poem. As so often, I begin by reading the passage through, several times. I breathe, I wait to see what speaks, what arises, what I feel. And I felt a strong response to the water, and the dove – those natural elements I see myself every day in my own walks by my own river. They moved me. And yet, there was also this background thought of the painting that has formed my imagining of the story. So a poem emerged which is in itself a kind of epiphany, a kind of seeing things in a new way, or perphaps a given insight. I leave that to you, the reader.

If you enjoy following trails, there are some others you might like here, relating to the water and the dove. The first is Jesus’ I am saying – I am the living water. That passage has stayed with me for years. You can read my reflections on it here. And the dove called to mind the story of Noah, and another poem, here. There is more of course, like Jesus washing his friends’ feet. I leave the others to your imagination.

Water and Dove – Baptism

When you stepped into the Jordan,
did the water stop, not daring to
touch your feet – as if
you yourself were the
arc of the covenant,
untouchable, fierce in holiness?
As if you bore within yourself
the whole of the law, the weighty
stones given to Moses? 
The river was in spate then – wild it was,
but it stopped before such fearful holiness.

But I do not see it so. Rather,
I see cool water lapping your feet,
your legs, bathing them clean,
ripples rejoicing, dancing, flowing,
honoured to baptise one
who did not require it,
both water and Son of Man
living out their deep purpose

As the sky opened wide with
tender light, and a white dove
tumbled with the applause
of clattering wings down
to you –  and what then?
Maybe it landed softly
on your shoulder, resting
awhile, heads inclined together,
gently, two wild beings, two beings
overflowing with all love divine.

And so love spoke forth
with delight,
love pouring over you
like the cool water,
river water, living water
like the endless light,
and the softest
brush of feathers
from the wings
of a dove.
Endless,
life-giving
love.

Sunday Retold

If you’ve been joining me here on the blog for a while – thank you, I appreciate your company – you’ll be aware that I have a very occasional series with material from a couple of my books which follow the Sunday readings many Christian communities use. In particular, my retelling, The Bible Story retold in twelve chapters. Recently, I’ve been doing this fresh writing, with a poem, too. But here are some pieces you might find helpful. If you’d like to use any of my material, please feel free to do so, giving this blog as a source. If you’d like to publish it in some form, please do get it touch. Thank you.

For John taught them to hope. In his words, they caught a glimpse of something beyond their everyday lives. They understood that John that Baptist was preparing the way for something, or someone, astonishing.
“I baptize you with water, as a sign of your rependence: your turning back to God and his ways. But wait. There is one coming after me who is so much greater. I am not even worthy to carry his sandals for him. And when he comes, he will baptize you on the inside with the Holy Spirit and with fire. He will sort out the good from the bad, the wheat from the chaff!”

Then Jesus came down from Galilee in the north, and walked through the crowds toward John. John knew Jesus was the one they had been waiting for: the Messiah. Was Jesus really comng forward for baptism like everyone else?
“No!” said John, stepping back. “I need to be baptized by you – and yet you come to me – why?”
Jesus replied, “I must do everything that is right, and it is right to be baptized.”

And so John agreed, and they stepped out into the flow of the Jordan. Jesus went down into the cool water, and was baptised.

As he came up the bright sky broke open, and the Spirit of God came down gently and settled on him like a dove. A voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, the one I love, the one who brings me joy. I am very pleased with him.”
From the Bible Retold

Come, let us follow Jesus, who loves us.
From Prayers and Verses

The picture of birds over water (behind my name) is of the Wash at Snettisham RSPB. You can read more about that here.

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.

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

/ andreaskevington / Leave a comment

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.