When all this is over

When all this is over
I shall take up woodwork.
I will let my forceful life
Rest within the grain
Of wood seasoned
In the steady rain.

I will gather what is left
Of the forest and fashion
Fallen stuff into something,
Maybe nothing, but hope
That this is not the point.

I will shape a diminishment
Around small shards and shapes,
A calm diminuendo within
The hush of fallen leaves
And bare trees transfigured
In the dying sun.

And I shall live
Within the lines of my shallow palms
That can only hold as much
As they will then;
A saw, a blade, perhaps a lathe,
Indeed as much as they do now.

This the second in a trio of poems for Advent, the first being 'Mary' - shall aim to write 'Zechariah' in due course!

Bit of news, 'Nightjar' and 'High Tide' were accepted for publication by Borderlines the journal of the Anglo-Welsh Poetry Society for their winter edition.

Elizabeth

This is now. This long sight.
From hill country, eyeing a puff
Of dust illuminated in the dying

Light. This moving storm growing
From silence to a throng, a rage
Of glory climbing in the midday sun.

This is time. Though mine
Is further forward, further on
Reaching for the desert and the brokenhearted.

This is now, this now
When the burdened figure climbs the final
Steps and speaks the words

Carried like burning coals from the hearth
Of heaven. This long sight of mine
Eyes the stuff confined within this shy
Slight girl, holding a new world inside her.