A prayer


words always seem to be the last resort
but I long, deeply long
for grace to permeate the meeting
of two people so different
yet so saved.
May the wisdom that
called men to follow her
make herself known.
May patience the hardest fruit
ripen to juiciness
May calmness with a wave
of your hand, settle
May your love be allowed
to flow through their
rusty selves.
And if all goes wrong Lord
we know that you feel
the pain, the loss
and that you will work it out
some other way.
But I do hope what happens
would be the good thing.
Thank you that you indulge in
silly prayers. Amen.

The Talkers

Look at him.
Yes him.
It’s very rarely her.
He talks and talks
and talks and talks.
The people listen and sleep.
They listen and fume.
They listen and read.
They listen and get blessed.

It’s the centre.
It’s never missed
rarely shortened
and quite often
the wrong wind.

It’s based on a library
one that I love
that I get lost in
that I find hard.

And yet this talk
often makes me despair
for I do love the talkers
even though funny voices
squeak and boom from them.

This is bovine gold
for the new nomads
helped across with
wireless but receivers
that are tiring.

the bards realised
their own folly
and sang of it
but when will
the Talkers?