In our own place here
on the bigger of two islands in the north
we’ve had stormy weather this long time now,
the kind that can make hay of the waves
and slice out the sun, and obscure the face of the moon.

Up it reared, one fine day, and we could do
nothing only put up with it, and learn
whatever can be known from not being
able to find a whole, safe moment,
in your own country, awake or asleep or in-between.

We sheltered among the upturnings
afraid to hope for an end. Buffeted between
bells and rosaries, we had our work
cut out for us to keep alive the pearl
of our own-made faith. Taken to the head
of the pass, we’d begun to lie under, but then,

just as we were nearly dropped over,
miracle of miracles: the splintered
radiance dimmed, the cut of the wind
softened and the moon reappeared
in its fullness. And now, now we bathe again

in its light and in our knowing
of its light reflected. Deeper than ever
we dive, rejoicing in the lustre of its dear,
familiar, steady gleam, returned to us to live within.

FURTHER READING:  For more poems from me and an anthology of extracts about going creative:

 A Creativist Compendium: Beyond The “Law” of Attraction

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