Sunday Chapel

Afternoon, a walk in the woods, I feel
the pull and pinch of past life struggling
to resurface, like springtime new growth.

I stop beneath a pair of oak trees stripped
by the winter, release my gloved fingers
wanting a campfire to relieve the itch
and ache of cold – or other hands to hold.

Over the crest, a break in the water
signals a short thaw giving me some hope
Spring will soon melt away the dreary grey.

The adventurous partner in this pair
he goes ahead of me searches, explores,
finds wonder in just about everything.

A glance over shoulder as if to ask
permission to venture farther away
he smiles when I nod, and he runs. I walk.

A slower pace to practice my breathing
– slow and steady, in through the nose, and out
through the mouth. Deliberate meditation
in our Sunday chapel by the river.




Esoteric words and thoughts elude me –
I’m struggling to comprehend this life,
existence, my future, in a place once
a home, now a house, I’m waiting to leave.

I don’t frolic, bathe in bright pools with prayer
or conscious-clearing meditation, walk
among the birches, firs and snow in clean
mountain air, crisp with new life and promise.

I don’t imagine either of us thought –
or expected
– we’d occupy these haunts;
and yet, here we are, together alone
with our musing, trying to understand.

My grief shifts from day into night, passion
not far from the surface – love mixed with pain.

© Siobhan