Poem: Gaia at Ely Cathedral

September 1, 2025September 1, 2025 / andreaskevington / 2 Comments

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.

Poem: Overflowing – Sunday Retold

April 30, 2025 / andreaskevington / 2 Comments

The beach at Walberswick.

So, this Sunday Retold is a little different. The retelling is a poem, which you’ll find below. Some of you may remember that I’m absolutely delighted to be bringing out a book of poems next year, based on the cycle of the seasons – both in nature and in the readings that many churches follow. You can find out a little more about that here. Wild Goose, the publishers, are happy for me to share some pieces in progress with you here as I work on the book.

It seems good to start with Easter, and this week – of the poems I’ve been working on – the one that seems most nearly there is one that happens to tell the story of this week’s gospel reading, John 21:1-19.

It’s such a rich passage, and there is so much that could be and has been said. I think the reason this poem has come most readily is connected to the warmth and tenderness I felt when reading the story. Although we often focus on the extraordinary elements – and they are there, sure enough – I warmed to the ordinary. Once again, Jesus is feeding his friends. He knows they have been working all night, and he anticipates the depth of their hunger, their cold, their disappointment, and their need for this breakfast. It is a feature of these Easter stories, how often eating together is involved, how simple and reassuring the talk.

And here, we see the dance of grace – forgiveness for Peter, yes – but there is also the simple lifegiving grace of sharing food, of receiving, and giving. Of giving, and receiving. It is a revolutionary gift economy in fishing and sharing, in forgiveness and purpose, and its something I’ve missed before…. Perhaps I’ve been too caught up in the strangeness, or the textural intricacies, or the story being about Peter, to see how this new life is also about cooking breakfast for hungry people, and them having enough – strength, fish, new beginnings – to feed others in turn.

I love Wendell Berry’s phrase, “practice resurrection”, and this Easter, I’m wondering what that might mean….

But here is the poem.

Overflowing

Gathered around the fire,
dripping with lake-water
and morning chill,
they warmed themselves
in quiet, not asking who it was
who cooked them breakfast
on charcoal and hot stones.

After such a night, such an empty-
netted night of no-going-back
to the old life, of cold,
of hunger, of ropes
against skin,
they sat on the shore
with the smokesmell
of griddled fish and fresh
bread filling their senses.

In the dawn shadows –
the last stars fading,
the first light gleaming –
you handed them this
feast – loaves and fishes,
bread broken – you fed them
and warmed them.

This is how it flows,
the dance of new life.

We may be fisherfolk with
empty nets, but you
guide our hands. And we are
overflowing. You cook breakfast,
and we share a feast.

And then, and then,
the invitation, the instruction,
the grace to Peter and perhaps to all –
Feed my lambs,
Feed my sheep, my sheep.

We receive, and we give,
we give, and receive, for
there is enough.
There is grace enough to
break the nets and yet
the nets are whole, and look,
still the sea is full of fish

Overflowing
Dancing
In the new light of dawn.

The Little Free Pantry at St Andrew’s Church, Melton – one of many now springing up.

This story, of the miraculous catch of fish, and Peter’s restoration, is included in my retelling pictured above.

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

December 31, 2024 / andreaskevington / Leave a comment

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 – Wasp

September 18, 2024November 11, 2025 / andreaskevington / 2 Comments

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

April 20, 2024April 20, 2024 / andreaskevington / 2 Comments

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.

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

December 31, 2023 / andreaskevington / 2 Comments

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.

The fourth Sunday in Advent – Love

December 20, 2023December 21, 2023 / andreaskevington / Leave a comment

Caravaggio – Adoration of the Shepherds.

It’s getting closer to Christmas. This year, The fourth Sunday in Advent is rather overshadowed, falling as it does on Christmas Eve – the day when, for so many, and for so many years, the season of Christmas began. But its themes are precious, and the heart of the feast. It’s worth making a little space amongst the cooking and present wrapping and welcoming and general getting ready to hold the truth of Love coming among us at Christmas.

As it’s hard to make that little bit of space, here are the words to a carol that can perhaps sound in your mind whatever you’re doing in the moment…… to transform the activity into something holy and generative. A contemplation for busy hands.

Love came down at Christmas,
Love all lovely, Love Divine,
Love was born at Christmas,
Star and Angels gave the sign.

Worship we the Godhead,
Love Incarnate, Love Divine,
Worship we our Jesus,
But wherewith for sacred sign?

Love shall be our token,
Love shall be yours and love be mine,
Love to God and all men,
Love for plea and gift and sign

Christina Rosetti 1840-1894
One of the beautiful lyrics included in my Prayers and Verses.

There is a mystery we can enter into as we draw close to the year’s midnight, in this darkness where something hopeful and joyous is emerging. And the sign of it is love. Simply love: the token and the gift and the sign. As we approach Christmas, we can reaffirm that gift of love. We can consider what it might mean this week, for us, to live from a place and awareness of love. If Love came down at Christmas, what would that look like for me, at this time? Can we accept the gift and sign of this love? Can we receive it and allow it to change us, so we too are part of the new growth of this silent, midwinter spring?

One of the readings for today, from Isaiah 7, includes the name for the one to be born….. Immanuel, translated as God with us.

It’s a profound promise. That God is with us. Even when we are unsure what we mean by God, even when we lose sight of what might seem clear in clear daylight, maybe we can come to know that we are held and accompanied in love. This, to me, is increasingly the heart and core and hope I hold onto. That God is indeed with us. And it is good to become alive to this in the bleak midwinter – as Christina Rosetti also wrote.

This autumn, we went to a beautiful celebration of Julian of Norwich’s wisdom and words by contemporary artists. It’s her 650th anniversary. The exhibition was held in three churches in the city. The title was ‘Love is the meaning’, taken from the revelation that Jesus’s meaning is indeed love. It is so restoring and freeing to know that love is the heart of the good news of Christmas.

With apologies for the poor photo quality! They are very fine works.

‘And in this he showed me a little thing, the quantity of a hazel nut, lying in the palm of my hand, as it seemed. And it was as round as any ball. I looked upon it with the eye of my understanding, and thought, ‘What may this be?’ And it was answered generally thus, ‘It is all that is made.’ I marveled how it might last, for I thought it might suddenly have fallen to nothing for littleness. And I was answered in my understanding: It lasts and ever shall, for God loves it. And so have all things their beginning by the love of God.

In this little thing I saw three properties. The first is that God made it. The second that God loves it. And the third, that God keeps it.’

Julian of Norwich

Julian’s insight reminds us of the inextinguishable love of Jesus born among us, and dying among us too. A deep hope springs from that love for us, and for all that has been made. It gives us a way to walk in the world, secure enough to be bold in the love we give, for we have received. It doesn’t overlook the pain of the world, but provides a profound companionship and meaning in the midst of it.

The gospels are full of hardship and difficulty, and love, companionship and healing. I am increasingly valuing the questions and uncertainties in the story – where things that seem bad, are turned to the good, and that which seems good, turns out to be less so. We can see instead how these things might work towards love, friendship, wholeness. It is easy to lose sight of how hard it must have been to be birthing in such hard conditions, but that very difficulty gives us hope in our own upturned places.

You might like to scroll up to the Caravaggio picture above – intensely beautiful even in its portrayal of an exhausted Mary and ill clad shepherds. It’s worth following the eyes in this picture, to notice where everyone is looking, and what those looks communicate. There is something in the space between – the space between mother and child, held in the gaze of the shepherds – the love, the deep bond, which means so much. The artists were right to value it. There is a fine net of love and wonder being spun here, despite the destitution of the setting. This is deep looking indeed.

Some years ago I attempted a paraphrase of the beginning of John’s gospel. A friend read it last Sunday at a contemplative carol service, where it opened the dark evening. I thought I’d share it with you today.

Beginning

It started with the Word, who was there before the dawn of time –
before the earth, the waters, the stars – there with God, was God.
For in the beginning, there was simply nothing else.

But then, the Word began to work. When the Word spoke,
the universe spun into song, and all things came into being.
Without the Word there was only empty blankness.

For the Word, the universe burst into life like a desert after rain.
This was the Word’s work – unleashing life and light –
glorious and radiant, warming our lives like the sun in spring.

This is the light which shines through our darkness – cold, smothering darkness
where nothing can grow. And the darkness draws back at its touch,
not understanding a light that cannot be put out.

Then, the Word, source of life and light, came into the world he made,
but the world hid its face in its hands. It did not recognise him.
He reached out to his people, and they turned away.

Yet to all who welcome him, believed in him, he held out his hands
to give them such a gift – to know that they are a child of God,
Born of God.

So the Word, the One who was there from the beginning
became flesh and blood and chose to make a home
with us in this fragile, changing world.

He came with open hands to bless, brimming over
with words of truth. He has unlocked Heaven’s storerooms
and poured down gift after gift for us.

We saw his glory with our own eyes – we saw him shining
with life and light, we saw the very One who came to us
from the Father.

For no one has ever seen God. But this Jesus,
the One and Only, who was there at the beginning,
has made God known.

Gaia at Ely Cathedral

The blossom buds are already there, tiny flowers formed, asleep and waiting for the days to begin lengthening just a little. They burst early, in February often. It’s all there, waiting, at this darkest time of year. How wonderful to celebrate light and birth now, when hope may be faltering. Maybe, we can treasure this lesson of darkness. We may be able to catch a glimpse of the love that came down at Christmas, and the love that received him.

Thank you for joining me in these readings and ponderings.
May you have a blessed, peaceful and loving time as we draw close to Christmas.

Many blessings to you and those you love.

Poem: A solitary shining drop

November 27, 2023November 27, 2023 / andreaskevington / 2 Comments

Sedum, after the rain had cleared.

The practice of wandering – often around the garden – contines to be a a helpful one for me, quieting and contemplative. The practice of standing still and looking, too. Quite a lot of apparent “nothing” seems to be fertile ground, after all. Something catches my attention, as if it is saying: ‘look, here is something, a marvel, a meaning, a glimpse of beauty’. I am coming to think they are happening all the time, and what makes the difference is my openness to seeing, hearing and knowing them.

And so, when the sun broke through after the rain, I went outside, and sat on my coat, and looked. Some distance across the lawn, I saw a bright red light, flashing, and, curious, saw a drop of rain acting as a prism. I watched it for as long as the angle of light made it shine with colour. It called to mind two ancient stories – the burning bush, and the flood – from the Hebrew Scriptures. How the world is full of epiphanies. And again, I was in awe of the way the natural world – of earth and fire, water and air – invites us to listen, to pay attention, to wonder.

A solitary shining drop

Just now, I saw the sun
catching a raindrop as it
rolled so slowly down a
sedum stem, fleshy
and green.

It shone through red, rich,
neon and ruby, flashing as the
stem swayed in the breeze, taking
the drop through that one
ray of light, back and forth.

Then it suddenly changed
to the dazzling blue of cobalt
and lapis lazuli – oh, heavenly blue.
Heavenly blue.

Just now, for a moment, this
treasure made of light and rain,
this solitary shining drop
becomes a tiny shard of promise,
a slim fragment of the arc
that holds the sun and the rain.

It all speaks. All speaks. In the
mind’s quiet, and in a flash of
brilliance that turns your head.
A gentle whisper and a
burning bush, both.
A drop and a rainbow.
The world shines with
meaning, murmuring,
as the green earth is
drenched by sun and rain.

Poem: After the storm – October ’23

November 1, 2023 / andreaskevington / 2 Comments

Last Friday, during storm Babet, Suffolk experienced some of the most severe flooding in England. It was good to be able to stay home and keep in touch with friends, making sure they were safe. Many people have lost their homes, their businesses and their posessions. Tales of help and rescue are still emerging. Places that have not flooded in living memory have been badly effected. We are used to threats from the sea in this part of the world, but think of ourselves as living in a dry place, unused to severe storms. The climate is changing, and it is unsettling.

As I’m writing this, the next storm is about to arrive, with a weather warning for wind beginning this evening. The mild, even warm, air holds so much moisture, the trees are still in leaf, the roots in soft soil. This morning I hurried to pot up a whole load of tree seedlings for a friend of a friend who is planting a small wood nearby, and I marvelled at how easily they slid out of the earth.

This strangely perturbed and perturbing season of weather is full of beauty, plants and flowers still growing vigorously on the first day of November. The air is full of insects and birdsong. Frogs are hopping whenever I disturb the plants in the garden. As I sat in a patch of warmth I remembered some words of Robin Wall Kimmerer which I love, from a book I treasure:

“Even a wounded world is feeding us. Even a wounded world holds us, giving us moments of wonder and joy. I choose joy over despair. Not because I have my head in the sand, but because joy is what the earth gives me daily and I must return the gift.”
― Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants

And as I began to write, that idea seemed particularly rich and right for the moment, and for always. What gifts we receive. I hope we can return such prodigal generosity, and care for the Earth. We do need the Earth to continue to care for us.

After the storm, October ‘23

There is a low sun
slanting gold across
all this humming green,
all this hidden life
whispering through
each bending blade,
and the birds sing loud
after the silence of the storm,
as loud and full as spring.

And the sun warms my skin
after the floods and the
rain and the rising dark waters,
and my skin is soothed and comforted
even as my mind is troubled.

What will become of us, what will
become of us all, as the air
heavies again with water, burdened,
and that water, fallen, heavies,
burdened, with brown earth,
for each year brings more strangeness.

And yet, even so, the light
drips with gold, shining
through translucent wings,
insects swaying in those
wailful choirs, in many
tiny flocks, rising and
falling in the gusting warmth,
more and more each year.

It feels so small, this heart-response
to so much perplexity. And small it is.

And yet it is something
to marvel at the beauty that
is still offered, daily,
to say yes, and thank you,
for the green overflowing of all
this life, and to tend within my reach.
To receive, to love, to speak,
to tell you even of these
rain-drenched dripping flowers –
look, heavy and ripe and bowing –
and dare to hope that in some
deep and barely discernible way
this care, this love, this joining of eyes
upon beauty, is the softest whisper,
almost beyond hearing, of
mending and healing and
knitting together,
stitched through with
golden, endless light.

This poem also owes a debt to John Keats, and his incomparable Ode to Autumn.

Poem: Gaia at Ely Cathedral

September 10, 2023March 15, 2024 / andreaskevington / 14 Comments

I’m sharing this post again, September 2023, as part of the Season of Creation some Christian traditions are marking at this time. So many of us have experienced extreme weather conditions this summer. I write in exceptional September heat, surrounded by welcome green from earlier rain.

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

Additional note, 24th September. 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: