Poetry

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.

Sunday Retold: Who – The Transfiguration

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I’m working away at my collection of poems, The Year’s Circle, weaving together the seasons of the year and the seasons of the readings many churches follow. And we’re coming up to the story we call the Transfiguration – when three of his friends see Jesus in an otherworldly, shining – vision? or what was it? – with Moses and Elijah from the Hebrew Scriptures. It’s a pivot point in the gospel accounts, important and central, and also strange.

Some have interpreted this event as a revelation of Jesus’ true identity, and perhaps a foreshadowing of the resurrection appearances, and perhaps a glimpse of the Universal Christ – a theme explored by Richard Rohr in his book of that name.

As usual, there is no explanation, no interpretation in the gospel accounts. And there’s something about the event which encouraged me to explore the way it asks questions of us – what we think is really real, and really lasting. How we see – do we see glory? Do we see cloud? Those explorations reminded me of the medieval work, The Cloud of Unknowing, and how beneficial it is to be open and patient with things that are beyond our understanding. It feels like a story to sit with in contemplation, expanding our way of seeing, inviting us into a deeper and truer experience.

Earl Mott’s painting of the Transfiguration

When I was reading Luke’s account I was struck, as I often am, by his ordering of the events. There seems to be a theme emerging, with questions of who Jesus was, and also, what greatness might mean. And so I wrote a short series picking up those themes and exploring them. There are other events woven through that are not covered by the following sequence of poems – the Feeding of the Five Thousand, for instance – which is developing a sequence all of its own.

If you are looking for something to use in your devotions or public worship for the Feast of the Transfiguration (on 6th August), the parts stand alone, and can be used singly. But I was intrigued by the flow of ideas and wanted some space to ponder them on the page. I began with Herod, troubled and awkward in his guilt, and moved through the stories to the little child, standing in the midst of them.

So, here it is….. four poems following a trail.

Who?
Luke 9, Matthew 16-18

I  Herod

Herod found you a
question he did not
know how to answer.
Perplexed, he heard
whispers that you
were John back from
the dead, a ghost to
stalk his conscience,
shock his dreams,
or the great Elijah,
or another prophet.

He sought you out, he tried
to see you. Perhaps to
ask you who you were.
What might have been,
what could have been,
if he had met you then?

II  Peter’s confession

You asked those who knew you best,
Who do they say I am?
and
Who do you say I am?

To the first, they gave the
answers that blew in the air
like smoke, whispers that
swirled dark around
Herod’s palace, and
through courts and crowds.
John the Baptist, back from the dead.
Elijah. One of the prophets.

And to the second – a moment’s
pause, an intake of breath,
a strangeness rising – to be
asked to name, to more than name,
one they knew daily, and loved,
and still, barely understood.
How to give answer
to such a question?

But Peter did. The vast
words formed in his mouth.
He called you Messiah,
the Christ, the anointed one.


How good it is to be seen,
to be known, to be understood.
How warmed you were by those words.
Enough to give him a new name –
Rock – and a new identity – foundation stone.
For all his impulsiveness, changeability,
you knew him as deeper, and truer.

And yet a sadness enters here.
The anointed one does not
walk in greatness.
The road you will take is
hard and stony. A way of weeping.
And a warning enters too –
those who consider themselves
God’s guardians will subject
you to death, yet death
will not hold you.

Such words cannot
be borne. Such an
upending, a
contradiction,
such pain. 
They fall to the earth
like so many
hard-shelled seeds,
trodden into the dirt
and snatched up by
dark, shining beaks.

III Transfiguration

Sometimes our seeing falls away
and we catch a glimpse of
deeper truth.  We say we see the light

Away from everyday thinking,
on the mountain, in prayer,
weighted with sleep.
Perhaps we see a beloved face
lucent in sudden light.

But here, on this mountaintop,
three friends lifted up their eyes
and saw – what shall we say?
to whom shall we compare him?

Shining like the sun, as white
as light, as bright as lightning –
the one they walked with,
ate with, laughed with.

Was it like the lifting of a veil, or                                                                                                
perhaps a dragonfly splitting his
dark skin to emerge a jewel?
Was it a peering through
the door of heaven, or
coming to see the glory
of things here, and now?
I do not know.
I do know it feels
a moment of endless truth.

And in that moment, Jesus,
Elijah and Moses do
not speak of the glory
that blazes around them,
they talk of the pain that
is to come – as ones
who can understand.
I hope there was some
comfort in it.

Something like comfort
too in the sightless
seeing cloud,
shekinah,
that reveals how we
do not and cannot see –
God is beyond us

And yet is with us,
as close as mist
filling our lungs,
beading on our skin,
as close as one we love.


And then they hear that true voice
speaking tenderly, calling him
beloved, and saying to listen,
to listen to their dazzling friend.

Words they will carry in their hearts,
words which in turn will carry them
on that long wide-eyed walk
down the mountain,
and through all that is to come.

As above, also reference to Isaiah 40

IIII Greatness

It is not what we think.
Greatness is not the pomp,
the power, the show,
the mountaintop.

It is the welcoming of a
little child. It is the being
like a little child.
In doing so, we draw
closer to the one
who calls Jesus
beloved,
the Son I love.

Greatness, a costume
cloak of purple and foil.
Let it slip from your
shoulders. Let it
fall.

As ever, I’m sharing with you work in progress. There may be some tweeks and amendments before things land in the book – Wild Goose, Iona Publishing, next year.
Also, as ever, please feel free to use any of my material that helps, referencing this blog as your source. I love to hear about where my poems fly to, and where they land.

Here is a link to some more I’ve written on the Transfiguration. It includes extracts from my retelling, and some thoughts on how we might come to see more truly. I hope you find it nourishing.

Armando Alemdar Ara, from Liturgy Tools

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.

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

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 – 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.