Fredag…
Lönen landar.
Sockret sjunger.
Och jag drömmer… om allt gött.

Geléhjärtan i fickan,
fudge i min hand,
smörkola på tungan,
och solen över strand.

Lön, godis och annat gött,
livet är sött, ja livet är sött.
Men för mycket av det goda,
kan göra hjärtat trött.

Lakrits och körsbär,
jordgubbstårta och te,
smultron på stigen,
och reggaens mjuka ske.

Honung på läppen,
banankaka varm,
hallonsylt på morgonbröd,
och kärlek i min arm.

Lön, godis och annat gött,
livet är sött, ja livet är sött.
Men för mycket av det goda,
kan göra själen trött.

Kokos och mango,
gräddglass i sol,
men socker blir tunga steg,
när kvällen blir moln.

Balansen är som choklad,
lite räcker långt.
För mycket, och drömmen
blir bara kladd.

Lön, godis och annat gött,
livet är sött, ja livet är sött.
Men för mycket av det goda,
kan göra hjärtat trött.

Spara lite till imorgon,
så smakar det ännu bättre.

lön, godis och annat gött

DID you know, little child,  
Ere you left the outer wild,  
There were strong hands steady,  
There were old songs ready, 
There was love prepared to keep you with the hard earth reconciled?     

There’s a place here for you, between Nan’s old chair
and the lad who came in from the cold last year.
We don’t ask where you’ve been, not till you’re fed,
just pass your plate, we’ll heap it with bread.
Steam curls up like the ghosts of old feasts,
candles dripping slow on the mantelpiece.
Laughter already spilling down the hall,
the fire’s got its arms round us all.

Bread and salt, for the road you’ve walked,
wine and stew for the tales you’ve brought.
What’s in your heart, lay it down here,
we’ll warm it, we’ll keep it, we’ll make it clear.

Someone’s telling the one about the goose in the lane,
someone else swears it never rained that day.
You’ll hear the truth and the lies get stitched
in the same old quilt, every patch well-pitched.
We’re not saints, mind, we’ve got tempers and pride,
but the kettle still sings when the storm’s outside.
And when the bread runs low, we just slice it thin,
laugh all the harder, pour another in.

Bread and salt, for the miles you’ve crossed,
wine and stew for the loves you’ve lost.
What’s in your soul, spill it like light,
we’ll tend it, we’ll guard it, through the night.

See the lad at the end with the fiddle in hand?
He’ll play you a tune you won’t understand,
but it’ll sit in your chest like a hidden flame,
and each time you hum it, you’ll hear your name.
There’s a grace in the grease on the plates unwashed,
in the clink of the cups and the bread’s last crust.
In the way that strangers, by night’s slow weave,
become the ones you’re the last to leave.

Bread and salt, for the road you’ve roamed,
wine and stew for the times you’ve known.
What’s in your heart, lay it bare, lay it whole,
we’ll break it, we’ll bless it, we’ll make it home.

There beneath the radiant dome  
Unafraid your feet will roam,  
With the soft creek lapping,  
And the loose bark flapping,  
While the waving tree-ferns whisper, ‘Little girl, you’ve wandered home.


Bread and salt

"The flame casts long shadows around me.
Am I one of those shadows, or am I standing in the light?"

The park hums with a quiet glow,
Lanterns swinging as breezes flow.
The river whispers, a murmured song,
A thousand lights, but I still feel wrong.

The cobbled streets are crowded tight,
Laughter dances in the firelight.
Faces blur like a fleeting dream,
But I walk alone, caught in between.

Oh, flame that flickers, steady and small,
Guide me where I feel nothing at all.
Through the dark, to where I must stand,
A place to belong, a heart in hand.

By the Ebbw’s edge, the water shines,
Reflecting moments lost in time.
A child laughs as the flames grow tall,
I close my eyes, and I see it all.

A memory calls, like a distant tune,
Of love beneath the silver moon.

Oh, flame that flickers, brighter tonight,
Burn through the silence, reveal the light.
Through the shadows, through the despair,
Take me to the place where hearts repair.

Each step I take feels heavy and slow,
The weight of years I’ll never let go.
But as the flames rise, a warmth returns,
A quiet fire within me burns.

I think of him, his quiet gaze,
The steady hand that held my days.
The lanterns sway, they light the air,
And I wonder if he’ll find me there.

Oh, flame that flickers, steady and true,
Burn through the sorrow, carry me through.
To the place where shadows fade and heal,
A love eternal, a fire that’s real.

Then I see him, across the glow,
His steps are slow, but his face I know.
He takes my hand; the shadows fade,
In his warmth, the flame is remade.

The lanterns fade, the river sighs,
But love remains beneath the skies.
No need to wander, no need to roam,
For the flame has led my heart back home.


Following the Flame (slow)

Connect,
Light, light.
One small step.
Light.

In the belly of the grate, the night has distilled
all the bright into something more patient.
The dust holds a secret warmth,
the kind you cup in your palms
as though it might tell you the truth if you listen.
I stir the grey with an iron tongue,
tracing shapes only the coals can read,
watching the air drink the last of the gold.

Ashes in the pan, whisper the art,
heat without flame, the turning of heart.
Black into silver, silver to gold,
still in the embers, the shape will hold.

Once, I carried the stone before it was stone,
soft, quickened, full of light it did not yet know.
We walked the frost path before the sun named it,
breath turning to smoke,
smoke turning to cloud,
cloud returning to rain.
And rain, in its own slow season,
feeds the wood that waits for the fire.

Ashes in the pan, turn as you stand,
lead into silver, silver to sand.
What was once burning, cool to the skin,
still I keep the fire within.

The work is never finished,
it shifts in the marrow,
in the grain of the table,
in the small hiss when water meets heat.
I tend the slow transmutation,
not for the blaze,
but for the faint thrum beneath it,
the pulse of a thing that refuses to vanish,
even in sleep.

Ashes in the pan, circle the year,
turning the hidden, drawing it near.
Night into morning, loss into plan,
I live in the ashes in the pan.

Lay down,
The gray,
today,
Ate,
it will teach you,
even the smallest ember,
remembers the sun.

ashes in the pan

May the long-time sun
Shine upon you
All love surround you
And the pure light
Within you
Guide your way on
Guide your way on

On the sill where the night-breeze leans,
we place the gift that hums unseen.
For the traveller passing, tired and worn,
for the spirit that lingers till the break of dawn.
A crust of bread, a drop of wine,
simple offerings, old as time.
In the giving, the circle holds,
in the sharing, the story’s told.

May the long-time sun
Shine upon you
All love surround you
And the pure light
Within you
Guide your way on
Guide your way on

I see your hands, so small, so sure,
laying down care on the threshold floor.
You smile like the moon when the candles gleam,
your laugh the prayer that the silence means.
For in your breath, the old is new,
and faith’s not a book but the way we do.
With every crumb, the bond is sown,
that what we share, we never own.

Blessing bowl, river of song,
take the weary, carry them on.
Bread and water, night made whole,
feed the heart, the blessing bowl.

Stranger, neighbour, ghost, or kin,
all are welcome, all walk in.
The road is heavy, the dark is long,
but here’s a hearth, a hymn, a song.
And when tomorrow lifts its head,
you’ll find the crumbs, the wine, the bread.
What matters most is not what stays,
but how the gift gives back its rays.

Blessing bowl, circle unbroken,
every gift a vow unspoken.
Bread and water, soul to soul,
love abides, the blessing bowl.

May the long-time sun
Shine upon you
All love surround you
And the pure light
Within you
Guide your way on
Guide your way on
Guide your way on
Sat naam
Sat naam
Sat naam
Sat naam
Sat naam
Sat naam

the blessing bowl

Carreg yn cofio, tân yn canu,
mynydd yn sefyll, hiraeth yn aros gyda ni.

Llechi ar y tô, llechi dan draed,
tân yn y lle tŷ, sŵn llwch a gwres.
Lludw yn y cornel, sbarc yn yr awyr,
amser yn y cnawd, yn y cerrig i gyd.
Mae’r waliau’n dal enwau, wedi’u graffu’n glir,
mae’r bryniau’n dal cân yn y glaw di-ddiwedd hir.
Bob ember yn sibrwd, bob carreg yn dweud,
etifeddiaeth yn llosgi, lle mae’r tawel yn lledu.

Llechi a fflam, carreg a thân,
caro’r dydd, dal y nos yn llawn.
Wreiddiau dwfn, yn codi’n fry,
tân yn isel, a llechi’n y nen fry.

Dwylo’n codi, dwylo’n torri,
lle tân o drugaredd, to llechi’n storïau.
Glo a chopr, gwythïen a llif,
dyffryn yn ffurfio breuddwyd o fyw.
Mynydd yn anadlu mewn tafod mwg,
hen weddi yn codi pan ddeffrôdd y nos.
Ac mae’r lle tân yn adrodd beth mae’r bryn yn gwybod:
tân yw’n fyr, ond mae carreg yn aros.

Llechi a fflam, cenedl a chartref,
dal ni’n effro, cadw ein cysgu’n hedd.
Esgyrn caled, anadl tân,
bywyd mewn carreg, cariad hyd angau’n lan.

Plant yn chwerthin lle’r chwarel fu,
tanau’n dawnsio yn y coed gwlyb du.
Cenedlaethau’n casglu, cylch mor llawn,
carreg i’r cnawd, a thân i’r enaid yn dawns.
Trwy stormydd, trwy’r blynyddoedd,
bryn yn sefyll, tân yn glanhau’r holl brodd.
Hiraeth yn aros, distaw, yn rhydd,
wedi’i grafu mewn llechi, wedi’i ganu mewn fflamau’r byd.

Llechi a fflam, cân a chreigiau’n un,
rydym lawer, ond yn galon un.
Mynyddoedd gwreiddiol, lle tân yn aros fan hyn,
calon Cymru yw llechi a fflam o fewn.

Carreg yn cofio, tân yn canu,
mynydd yn sefyll, hiraeth yn aros gyda ni…

slate and flame

you took my hat off and wore it

it looked better on you

you took my shoelaces and
tied them around your wrists like bracelets

i wanted to hold your hands

 Morning light spills through the window pane,
 we sit on the floor where the shoes still remain.
 Little hands fumble, steady the lace,
 your laughter comes easy, it softens this place.
 Knots in the morning, prayers in guise,
 bows like small halos that shine in your eyes.

 Shoelace praise, simple and true,
 every knot a hymn I tie for you.
 Shoelace praise, gentle and small,
 holding our steps all through it all.

 loops of lace like rabbit’s ears,
 stains of salt and sifting tears.
 laugh of knots comes loose again,
 I show you the trick, round once, then ten.
 up and at it, out the door, 
 aye, done this dance many time before.

reckon there's some magic in those knots, bach.

oooooh,
sing sing, my magic string!

 Shoelace praise, steady and near,
 loops of devotion that hold us here.
 Shoelace praise, humble and kind,
 binding our hearts as we walk in time.

 All through the day those laces stay,
 through puddles and pavements, hopscotch play.
 Tiny ritual thread us close,
 the smallest things are what I love most.
 Shoelaces fray, the fabric wears thin,
 but the bow is a promise of where we’ve been.

 Shoelace praise, worn but strong,
 a tether that hums like a quiet song.
 Shoelace praise, dusk to dawn,
 a knot in the world that keeps us on.

 Evening comes, the day lets go,
 I kneel once more, and I loosen slow.
 The laces fall open, the bows release,
 knots undone into quiet peace.
 Sweet little yawn,  you carry it on.

With my shoelaces untied
I'm always falling short
Short of you
Short of yesterday
Short of tomorrow 

Papa… tomorrow, I’ll tie them myself.

 Aye, cariad… that's my lass.


sholace praise

one breath two, blow through 
Puff-pulse, bellows-breast, meadow-nest hush,
 gold-dust gospel in a wind-soft rush.
 Seed-bead, bead-seed, beadled in light,
 snow of the summer on a noon-blue night.
 Lip-sip, wish-swish, fizz in the air,
 petal-metal crucible, bright as a prayer.
 Halo-halo over thistle and toe,
 I load my lungs like a lantern and let go.

 Dandelion crucible, blow, slow, sow;
 little bellows, let the tiny suns go.
 Dandelion crucible, hush, hush, glow;
 hope rides the airstream, row by row.

 Stem-stem serif, serif of green,
 ink-spun aether in a typeface of sheen.
 Pollen-psalm syllables, syllabic snow,
 tickle my tongue with a soft halo.
 Fluff-loft, loft-fluff, off you sail,
 whirligig hymn on a thistledown trail.
 My mouth is a kiln for a whisper-hot spark,
 I temper a wish and I temper the dark.

 Field-breath, field-bread, fed by the breeze,
 knees in the clover, elbows of ease.
 Vane-vein weather, feathered refrain,
 clocks of the meadow keep merciful time.
 Sieve me the sunlight, sift me the blue,
 sow me a somewhere I never yet knew.
 Round little roundels, aureate snow,
 drift into maybe, drift into grow.

 Dandelion crucible, blow, slow, sow;
 let go the glitter of the yes I don’t know.
 Dandelion crucible, hush, hush, glow;
 carry my quiet where the wild seeds go.

 One breath, bead. Two breath, bead.
 Three breath, need. Four, proceed.

 Alembic of lungs, a liturgy of air;
 what I can’t carry, I cradle in prayer.

 Furled into furloughs of feather and shine,
 mercury meadow on a sunshine line.
 Sulfur of laughter, salt of the skin,
 elemental alphabet writ on the wind.
 Wish-dish, swish-sash, sash of the sky,
 holiness hiding in a blink of an eye.
 I pocket the nothing that glitters like gold,
 and blow it again just to see it unfold.

 Dandelion crucible, blow, slow, sow;
 little bellows, let the tiny suns go.
 Dandelion crucible, hush, hush, glow;
 hope on a hairline, row by row.

Enough to release; enough to keep

dandelion crucible

It is too beautiful to eat, 
knife crumbles it from gold to dark. 
Out keenest edge cannot stay sharp, 
white in out walls, which seemed so strong, 
damp murmurs with the evenling sleet. 
I wonder if I live too long

How many doors on a honey house?

 Sweet little city in a golden grid,
 wax-walled windows where the soft light hid.
 Angles like angels in a circle’s kiss,
 six small reasons why the world says “this.”

 Cell after cell after cell in line,
 snap into place like a rhyme in time.
 Finger to palm, I can almost see, 
 love has a lattice like a patient bee.

 Hold it to morning, tilt it to night,
 honeycomb geometry, pockets of light.

 Honeycomb, honeyhome, sweet symmetry.
 Sides like sighs in a soft liturgy.
 Count it: one-two-three, four-five-six,
 love tessellates where kindness sticks.

 Gold in the middle where the sorrows meet,
 two open hands hold bitter + sweet.
 I keep the sting and the sugar apart,
 space is a shelter I build with my heart.

 Mercy’s a measure, a gentle degree,
 between what I wanted and what came to be.
 I turn the frame and I learn to see,
 the hex of a blessing, the grace of a bee.

 Breath like a bellows, patience like wax,
 warm it with listening, soften the cracks.

Honeycomb, honeyhome, sweet symmetry.
 Six quiet doorways into empathy.
 Count it round my open palms:
 one-two-three, four-five, psalms.

 One for the sweetness shared,
 two for the tears we dared,
 three for the breath we spare,
 four for the steady care,
 five for the hands that mend,
 six for the love we send.

 Sun in a cell turns labor to gold,
 salt on my brow, little stories told.
 Sulfur of laughter, mercury rain,
 alchemical comfort for ordinary pain.

 I hold the comb to my ear and hear,
 hum of a hymn saying “I am here.”
 Honey is memory, warm and slow;
 compass of kindness tells me where to go.

 If sadness is heavy and joy is light,
 we balance the scales with how we hold tight.

 Honeycomb, honeyhome, sweet symmetry.
 Pattern of mercy under everything.
 Six-fold prayer in a golden ring,
 love is the shape we’re practicing.

 one… two… three… four… five… six…

but then I taste the honeycomb,
it waxen white upon my teeth,
its liquid sun which hides beneath. 
Small deities, of wind or moon, 
behold me. In my shabby room.
I am a god, I lick the spoon.

honeycomb geometry

You are matter, as they are.
See how perfectly it can be done.
Hold, one day more, what is asked.

One can easily hear a domestic silence
Which was afraid of bothering the broom
I’m lost again. I lost my common sense.
Hello, room. Did you keep the light for us?

I meet my name in the mirror of glass,
motes drift, small planets in a patient mass.
A spider plant leans like a green-bowed priest,
roots in a jar where the sun breaks east.
Pebbles on the sill, cold verses of stone,
each one a pocket where I once felt known.
Toy saints line up with their painted vows,
tin-sized halos and bent plastic brows.

Windowsill monastery, vows in light;
we keep them softly, morning to night.

Cup with a crack and a dandelion stem,
water remembers the hand that held them.
Sticker-flaked frame with a seaside sky,
I press my cheek to the glass and try.
Who am I here in the hush of this place?
A moth with a map made of dust and grace.
Why am I here in this wide, bright frame?
To practice the sunshine and say my name.

Windowsill monastery, quiet and clear;
we lay down our smallness and call it “dear.”

Clock with no battery still keeping a prayer,
hands held together like they’re learning to care.
Books breathing softly, their spines like ribs,
pages are lanterns with whispering fibs.
Pebble rosary, six stones across,
counting the patience that outlives loss.
I set one word upon each round face:
mercy, marrow, mystery, place.

Toy saint of Courage has a scuffed-off crown,
she stands by the succulent, never sits down.
Saint of Small Sleep with a felt-tip smile,
guards the night window from thought’s long mile.
If I am a question the daylight wrote,
then you are the margin that keeps it afloat.
If I am a seed, then the sill is soil,
name me with sunlight, soften my toil.

Who am I?
A lamp in the leaf.
Why am I here?
To learn gentle belief.
How do I start?
Put your palm in the sun.
Breathe like a bell till the breathing is done.

Windowsill monastery, plant, stone, saint;
we practice staying when the heart feels faint.
Windowsill monastery, simple and bright;
we trade our hurry for a thread of light.

I came back older than the dust I see,
I came back lighter than the loss in me.
Pebbles remember the roads we crossed,
Leaves keep the hymns that the winter lost.
I drink the silence by windowsill glass,
I taste the hours the shadows pass.
Who… am… I… here… / Why… am… I… here…
Answer: this light that arrives sincere.

Windowsill monastery, ours for a while;
we let the room rename us child.
Windowsill monastery, nothing to prove;
we lean toward sun and learn to move.

I’ll keep the pebbles where the warm comes in.
I’ll keep the questions. We’ll begin again.

windowsill monastery

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