The clouds are roiling,
Seemingly spoiling for a fight.
The fern is unfurling,
Nearly see-through in the light.
The sparrow rests for a second,
before quietly taking flight.
A tiny spider clings
to bluebells that are white.
And after a day of toiling,
Settles down for the night.
A time of eggs, rabbits and cherry blossom.
Lawnmowers, waking after a winter’s rest.
Holidays, hot-cross buns and yellow bonnets.
Celebrating fertility and new life.
Relief that the darkness of winter is
finally gone. Enjoying the sun of spring.
Yet in the centre of all this verdant life,
sits death.
The death of one man: one king: one God.
Jesus.
He who chose to die, beaten and bleeding.
Mocked and murdered. He wanted this.
He died as a sacrifice, for all of us.
He died to make us right with God our Father.
Three terrible, dark days he lay entombed.
But he knew. He beat it. He is stronger.
He died once and for all.
One for all.
And when the chocolate has been eaten,
the leaves fall defeated from the weary trees,
The darkness and chill of winter rules again,
I will still have hope.
When my knackered body finally gives up,
I know that I will still live, with my God.
The God who chose to die, who gave up his life.
I was three years old, my sister four.
Mom was pregnant with our little brother.
Our mother wore a beautiful dark blue
Spotty dress. Laura wore green and I pink.
…
A couple of years later, we baked with
Mom. Laura’s cupcakes were perfect, mine blue.
…
Becoming a mum in my early twenties
Changed everything. But then, doesn’t it
always? My eldest son just turned 17.
The first two years were like one thousand,
And no time at all, were the next 15.
…
It snowed today: the daffodils yellow,
bowed under the burden of heavy white.
It is spring and Mother’s Day soon. New
life appears from the ground up, but winter
isn’t quite ready to loosen its grip.
…
I have four children, but only two are
on Earth.
Mums are the keepers of memories,
Hope and grief. Side by side, they grow.
The Sparrows call call call
Loudly to each other
From the rooftops, seven
On a Sunday morning.
The magpies soar soar soar
Their black and white feathers
Flashing in the spring sun
As they look for breakfast.
The blackbird sing sing sings
His beautiful song from
The apple tree’s bent branch
Whose buds are still tiny.
Fluffy clouds fly fly fly
Past high above my head,
In a rush, places to
Go, people to rain on.
Just another blog 