I have seen a glimpse of a place not yet,
covered as if with glistening dew in the
morning sun, being prepared for me to dwell in.
I am not yet there. I am but a sapling learning
how to grow in a new clearing when a tree falls.
Emptiness around beckoning like an early sun’s
lighting of a summer cloud above the morning mist,
serene, with promise. That which fell as harsh rain
might yet fall sweet, refreshing, drawing me onwards
encouraging growth.

Spirit Song

We go from the graveyard. It is
enveloped in silence once again.
Yet trees blossom with birdsong
filtering down to the hoard
of black clad mourners walking by.
Effortless melody humbles
the feeble tunes we sang.
Our discordant attempt to speak of
the unseen in that liminal space is
lacking when you hear the bird song
a rite both spiritual and elemental.


I conducted my first funeral yesterday.

He was two and a half years old, but had lived a good life, mainly he liked running sleeping and eating.

He was a little bad tempered at times and would often try to bite.

RIP Joseph the hamster.