peterhowepoetry

Glasgow Green with Nelson monument and People's Palace

All photos PH

The page psalm of myself is an ongoing exploration, a work-in-progress

See editing page for my Editing and Proofreading services

bookstall: PDFs of collections are offered on a PWYC basis: Pay-What-You-Can.

You held me once, I do not remember –

I, a baby and you, an old lady.

In the worn Edwardian photograph,

you beam in your monochrome garden,

gaunt and poor, stone-deaf, full of joy.

I think since then you’ve always been with me –

somebody has, invisibly guiding –

a warmth running through me, a lifting of thoughts,

hands holding me back from the fatal edge,

to which I was drawn too many times. How

can I thank you when I cannot meet you

except when we pass, unremembered at night?

Sometimes grace explodes, a blast of bliss,

the hit of a drug and you think maybe this

will last for ever, is what life really is.

Other times, grace lands disregarded,

a seed in damp earth quietly rooting,

and before you know it, branches are spreading,

leaves of contentment shelter the heart,

the green of acceptance turning light

into life, the joy of existing, while

a pillar of oak stands at your centre.

If thankfulness for this dear life

rich with the wealth of ample living

rosy the health of simple living

joy in the love of even one other

strong in the love of even oneself

safe in the love of that which gives life –

if this does not rise, a well within,

then quietly sit and with God’s bucket

haul it up: practise the work of gratitude.

Soon it bubbles and surges – here it comes

sparkling – inundates, irrigates, floods

the glad fields, opens new channels,

becomes a new habit.