Be still the river
Be still my heart
Deep in the valley
The mountains part
There in solitude
There in the place
I, unreachable,
Bow to that grace
Words from the Jagged Edge of Truth
Be still the river
Be still my heart
Deep in the valley
The mountains part
There in solitude
There in the place
I, unreachable,
Bow to that grace
Where once I was sure-footed,
Firm upon the rock and road,
I find myself less stable now,
Less able to carry the load.
The change was slow in coming,
Like the quietly sinking sun,
I turned to make my getaway
And found I could no longer run.
They are either running
Or they are either not
And if that second either
Should be my sorry lot
There will be no patties
For the pan or pot.
A single white bait
In the river did I see
So to the take-away
Food bar did I go
To buy some fish for tea.
The bare facts
and the naked truth
have been dressed
to impress;
together
they dance the night
away to the piper’s tune.
There is a hut, freshly painted,
that sits above the rumbling,
white waves hitting hard against
the southern coast; and inside,
on the small kitchen table,
his old pen and sheets of unused
paper are waiting for a hand
to write them.
We headed over the hill this morning
with a quite a list of things we needed
to do and things we needed to pick up;
we came home with ticks beside every item
on our list, basking in a pleasing sense of
achievement that nothing could disrupt.
The silent satellite,
sliding across the face of the Milky Way,
holds my gaze, unblinking,
makes notes I cannot see
and knows more than I know
about where I have been and
and what it is that pleases me.