By Lyra Button
a palette knife twisting together
grey and white paint
lathering clouds onto the night.
Embellishing all the skys mysteries
with faint angels and fluffy cotton owls.
the rain gossips on paving stones
and wuthering winds whisper to willows
in a language I’ll never know.
Theres a barn
broken in bales of hay,
and a fire in the corner
fluttering like a red winter robin.
Theres two sheep.
a dapple grey horse
and three cows.
Their heads
all leaning on eachothers bodies
so quiet
that I can’t picture it as
anything
but prayer.
What I mean is that a thousand philosophers
couldn’t teach me anything about God,
that I could not learn by giving
my old Nan a pair of hand knit socks.
Noticing her smile, all slight and celestial.
and feeling the tiny move of a hand onto an arm.
We make so much of the miracle
that we lose hold of the moment,
and miss its dog eared corners
of ordinary magic.
You can spend years deciphering
the mechanisms of the sky,
but all that means nothing when weighed against
that simple moment beneath stars,
as fingers lace together.
The world does not ask you to understand her.
just that,
while you have breath, you use it for kindness,
while you have fingers, you use them for such things
as making soup.
And so long as you live, you live in wonder.
A miracle is just a moment worshipped properly
Call it love. Call it God.
Whatever name it holds
I hold it,
sacred.
So I sit
with my family.
hands round a cup of coffee
that holds the whole worlds happiness.
hand out Christmas cards and presents,
point out the brushmarks in the clouds.
Watch my Dads smile and hold it tender.
I take my cup,
dip a biscuit
in the warmth of ordinary dreaming
and drink.
I feel my love and call it
prayer.
Whatever name it holds
I hold it,
sacred.
