Thankful

 Thankful 

I am thankful for my station

Grateful for where you have put me

For I did not grow into where i am now

I am budded, trimmed and grafted

My faeet did not carry me to my doorstep

Nor did my thinking chart my course

I am placed and stationed

Gauged and positioned

To fill the space i now occupy

To rise to fill the pan now baking

That is my task, and mine alone

Gauged and governed by my God who sees

Unbounded aspiration

And unintended elevation

Can strip resources from ascendance

Leaving an  untethered blimp like spectacle

Before a disaster orchestrated by ambition

Lazy apathy and unfaithful dereliction

Can bury me with briars of resentment

Sown on a grave that was never to be mine

Tended by those under my care 

For whom i was never there

Growing where i am put, 

Ah there is limitless possibility

to fill the sixty seconds of time well run

To harrow, water, weed and build

A garden of blooms, remembered hue

Nourished, cared for, faithful and true

To hear that master say

On his evening stroll

Well done my loved one, now my friend

Well done, well done, right till the end

 

The outer court

 

Smoke wafts softly upwards

Lifted by the silence within

An offering, from the brazen altar

In the kernel of my kiln

 

The sanctuary is cocooned safe

In the centre of space

Protected from the glare and blare

Sentineled placidity and garrisoned grace

 

Ah but the tumult at the outer wall 

Bashing at the gates of court

Smashes like sea breakers at a dike

Dead to consequence, dumb to stridor

Clamor, cacophony, mindless rancour

 

Dealing with density calls for recruits at the gate

To stop, to hold

To guide, to scold

To cajole and convince

And those multiple cacophonies multiplied

With reverberating replies

Can commandeer rushing, clashing, stamping or bashing

To just hold the line  from a fractious fate

 

The outer court is where character is tested

With mettle forged in the kiln at the core

When it shatters and shards at the outer gate

It  retreats returns to be forged once again

Drawing steel from blood from a saviors veins

 

One day my sword will hold

And not demon me with its thrust

For that is when it is best wielded

When its cut does not bleed but forges a fire of its own

And the hand that holds it needs not burn with shame of its arc

But become a bridge of hope

Held out to a clamorous  wanting world 

Clueless of secret forges unlit in the dark

That glow hidden quietly in the waiting