Spiritual poems and ponderings


Unless a grain of wheat is buried in the ground, dead to the world,

It is never any more than a grain of wheat

And the code for a new crop

Can’t be realised


Every seed is a miracle

The plan for a forest

Hidden in such an unassuming shell

And whether buried with tenderness

Or discarded and forgotten

Always the possibility of life


then, bursting forth


Give me the gardener farmer’s eye

Who sees potential in bare ground

Who honours the smallest of beginnings

Knows the season of quietus is not to be despised

Knows that waiting is necessary

For the joy to come

Knows that

Hope is meaningless if we already know the ending


Every morning is a resurrection

Ingrained into the earth’s DNA

Our skin – even

Healing and renewing

While we move and love and grieve, unaware

We are made of dust and stars

And after the fire, after the floods

Life is tenacious

And stubbornly new shoots will appear


There’s no resurrection without death

No spring without winter

No ascent without descent

First, perhaps we must fall

First, perhaps we must let go


Unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies,

it remains only a single seed.

But if it dies, it multiplies

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