cardiac nerve

rhythm familiar, motion similar,
taking my hand like a rail,
we are home,
kiss me, this is living.

hand to head, a stillness,
a future, a hope.

wrist to heart, a beat
a swell, a rush,
my cardiac nerve.

it has been some time.

I am sat in my living room, the windows are rolled up and my kitchen door stands wide open. Waves of fresh air pull in and out, unsettling the curtains, bringing the call of seagulls and bus rumble, then taking my ‘moving house’ playlist past these four walls onto the street below.

I am leaving Penrhyn Road today, packing up. My time here has been something I will treasure for along time. I’m staring at the white walls, now only peppered with blue tack, where last night there was an array of memories, faces, places.

Then there’s HOPE, still singing from the other side of the room in bold green letters, still testifying in the bleakness of boxes and bin bags - defining what this flat was.

I arrived at this flat a broken man, fearful of real depth, not knowing that I could be known and loved for being nothing other than who I was. How things have changed, long may they keep changing.

So, my prayer is simply one of thanks. Thank you that this became my home, thank you that I could share it. Thank you that it was a safe place, a place to cry, to laugh. Thank you that it was the place I learnt how to let go, how to receive, how to accept grace, how to extend grace… Thank you that even in this place being somewhere to wrestle with the old it was always somewhere new. Thank you for good flat mates, with their funny ways and rich rich hearts. Thank you for coffee and depth, thank you for roof top parties, thank you for bathroom singing.

Thank you for redemption.

burst sun bleeds,
shapes and kneads,
pressure.
words and eyes,
depth deepening,
soul.
God help me,
make me whole.

a tidy pile of rocks

A tidy pile of rocks, laid long,
reaches out, curves, carries me here to there.
Breathes like nature’s breath rolls over,
holds another, eyes heaven taken.
How has life become alive?
Alive meaning more than just living.
Perhaps when death starts dying,
and hope began rising.
Perhaps when choosing meant being chosen,
and held was also holding.
Life is creased and torn and broken,
but death has ceased and my heart is woken.
I have no choice but to take a breath,
and believe what’s spoken.