This is the house of Love, which has no bound nor end.

Dying To Remember

That old urge for words
which burn us up like music,
melt our sense of sunset
with a song about every death
and the ever-turning earth,
until those mountaintops sing
our smallest hope,
and how foolish it was,
and how it still lit them up
like distant beacons beckoning
an ancient race, rhythm itself
how we recall, how we respond,
as you realise that it is
easier to die than to remember.

Come here, love, be obliterated
by the end of all things
as it was told ten thousand feet up,
way above our clouds
and the flowing rhymes of
floating water, drummed into
deep time as we danced
before our dying star,
set for supernova and a kind
of cosmic submission
before this song is done,
before the beat comes back
to mere words and wanders…

Until it finds what was
always with God,
what is God,
and then walks off stage-left
to leave room for the next
set of players, intent
on all these imperfect dreams
we dropped along the way.


Go now, you are forgiven

In the clearing