And today there were sheep
In the lower field still
jumping about and
climbing the hill
They ignored us of course
but I waved just the same
as they didn’t know
the reason we came
For today there were sheep
but sometime there are not
Sometimes it is cold
and sometimes it is hot
But we always come
because this is our grace
and together we three
are alive in this place
When things went well I’d rarely say I ought to credit God or fate, Statistically at any rate. I took full credit for my day At least when outcomes went my way. The magic dust no one could see I thought I sprinkled liberally. I don’t know why I gave up this. I did. Perhaps it was that kiss, That slap, of Grace that conquered me.
It’s a beautiful thing
A perfect distraction
sitting with sunshine out here
And with a good book to read
and the breeze on my brow
I will often be here with a beer
Sadly now the Bridgewater Canal
a shadow of its glory days
is almost forgotten and hidden from view
in Manchester’s streets and broadways
Now twenty-first century pubs and bars
vie for trade where once it was steel
Nightlife and partying along its towpath
hide a wound that time cannot heal
There’s a boat on the river
that’s sad and bereft
For I’m sorry to say
there’s not a lot of it left
Abandoned to fate
several years ago now
It’s slowly been fading
from its stern to its bow
After three very difficult years, people ask me all the time, how on earth did you make it through all that physically and mentally? My answer was always grace for only one day at a time because that’s all you ever need anyway, no guarantees of another. All I know is God gives us grace when we need it, comfort when we hurt, joy to last the ages, and peace when there is fear. Just ask for One Day’s Grace and step back and be amazed at how you’ll make through one day at a time at the foot of the cross.
When mountains loom in front of you so high
Crossing raging rivers trying to swim or die.
Raise your voice to Jesus, ask for One Day’s Grace.
That’s really all you need for what you have to face.
Like little old men
they totter about
wobbling unsteady
as if they have gout
They fall over a lot
on their short stubby legs
and are really unsteady
on those little pegs
As crisp shadows form
With the hope of the sun
Down here I see promise
Of the warmth that’s to come
With blanket-clad legs
I gaze long at the blue
And know in my heart
that winter is through
Poet's Corner 