i.Don't.Know.

On being

i.Dont.Know.

Where is God?

I thought I saw her

Behind the aching,

gnarled oak,

smeared footprints

gasping through

the chewed dirt of Mother Earth.

There’s a poem about footprints

I read for mourners at funerals.

Priests stare at bluebells, another

poem claims, but I can’t vouch

for its truth.

So I gazed at withering colour

dispersing dying fragrance

into heaven’s air

waltzing with

pollen fairy lights

What do priests see?

No more than other seekers,

sometimes less,

wrapped up in doctrine

when nothing is a given

except

the Divine

is love.

These words were written on retreat in Cornwall just a few weeks ago. Since returning I’ve struggled to find either creativity or depth, and felt almost a sense of going through the motions at times, which I’ve learned over the years is OK. Fallow seasons are a part of life.

So perhaps not knowing, and contemplating nature, whether faded bluebells or a field full of summer flowers, is enough for now.