Tuesday, September 23, 2008


The moor is a brooding beast.
The grey still night slides closer
On a mist of midges and a fine
Silk drizzle.

The curlew haunts the
Wind-still silence with an ancient tongue.
The melodies stir memories beyond the span of human mind;

But I am thinking of you,
longing to have more to give than words
but these are all I own.

In your darkness I will tread as softly as I can.
I will not counsel
from my storehouse of accumulated ignorance.
I will not patronise
and practise sympathy upon your pain.
I will not presume
to stand too close for your comfort, or look upon your nakedness.

But I will tell you simple truths

You are loved,
You are surviving,
As strong as you should be,
As humble as you need to be.
There is faith enough for your calling
And grace enough for your anxieties
And gentleness enough for your humanity.

You are doing well in the eyes
Of the One you love.

All else is relative to this.

(c) A McN



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