A Saturday Caesura poem
Snow ghosts the sky, a silent
invasion that falls lightly,
gently onto a heavy
pillowed blanket. Just lies there.
So quiet. Until I step
on it. Then it cries, crunches,
squeaks, scrunches, swishes, crackles.
Snow, it turns out, has a voice
and so much to say.
cared for foster children - two
wide-eyed brothers who ghosted
through each day. So, so quiet.
Someone stepped on their spirits
and they stopped crying. No squeaks
or squeals of laughter, voices
silenced by fear, by neglect.
It's okay to step on snow.
A Sunday Doxology
Praise to you, the Word,
whose words are full of life
and healing, wisdom and
You speak words that cannot
be destroyed by lies or censorship
or even by time.
How amazing it is then,
that before your accusers,
you chose silence.
Not because you were guilty
with no adequate words of defence,
but because you were simply
a silent surrender
to fulfilling words already spoken.