Good Prayer Ground

Into the Cedars


I enter the cedar stand

With muffled footfall.

The Bay wind

Traveling at my side

Did not make it into the canopy.

Decomposition of years beneath.

Carpeted mosaic,

Dead-fall, granite, root-fingers, lichens.

Gnarled, ruddy sentries

In light-green camouflage,

Note my arrival.

Guarding the Past.

Guarding the Present.

Guarding the Peace.

Guarding the Plan.

A barking raven-my herald.

Doubtless, chipmunks and

White-tail freeze in their fashion,

Wondering if I mean harm.

Temperature drops a few degrees.

Shades are drawn.

Hospitable host, though shy.

Quietly checking out my manners.

I sense I must stand still,

Waiting.

Honouring timeless laws

Of territory.

As if to be waved in.

Frozen moment.

(Excepting only the

Carpenter ant dragging

Moth five-times-his-size

Along a fallen trunk.)

Some Conductor flips his baton.

Green-noise musical score resumes.

I am in.

Perhaps given the tour.

Nuthatch sidles around a trunk

To give me a peek.

Above, though hidden,

That clarion white-throated

Summer sound:

“Chee-chee-chee-Canada-

Canada-Canada.”

All around me traces,

Evidences

Of the continuing symphony.

Rabbit pellets.

Fox-fur snagged on a branch.

Tree-trunk porcupine lacerations.

Persistent flies

Around remnants of a red squirrel

Mishap.

Somewhere out there

The bright relentless sun,

Open Bay, lapping.

Sparkles in the marsh grass

At the sandy shore.

My Evinrude.

In here, community, concord, calm.

Occasionally, a burst of brilliance

Overhead.

As if Sun-God

Attempts invasion through the roof.

But the assault diffuses

Through lacy green

And settles disarmed,

Muted member of the carpet-floor.

How much more, noble red-man

Would have studied,

Sensed, smelled, heard:

He, in suit of two-year doeskin.

He, in feather, clam-shell breastplate.

He, the sum of many travels.

He, apprised of cedar-house rules.

He, the watcher of its ways.

This is his, and theirs.

I love it.

And seek adoption.

If only for the weekend.





(Note: In the forest I have gotten very small. Good prayer ground.)

The Closet


Again to be here

When none other might care.

Be the motive of fear

Or of gratitude rare.

I will run to this space

Just to unload my heart;

Yes a quieter place

Set a little apart.

And You come through the gray

In the brilliance of love

And You settle the day

With Your calm from above.

And You hear, I am sure

Every plea, every verse.

A compassion so pure

Will consider my worst,

And will answer again

Lest I misunderstand;

Neither mishap nor men

Will remove from Thy Hand.

Father, this is the spot

Where I grow on my knees;

See what mercy has wrought;

Feel the Spirit’s fresh breeze.

That Jonah, Newton


"I tell ya Chester, that Newton's a Jonah, he is. Temper quick as mercury. Wicked tongue ta shame even my drunken Uncle Tammas. He's no good for tha ship, I fear. Be lookin' fer whales, boy. Be lookin' fer this storm to roise."

The other, moving his pipe to the opposite side of the large jaw, mumbled, "Mmmm... Why is it d'ya think that Captin shows 'im such peticular favour? Even afore I came belowdecks he had turned over the helm to John. I've had no fearsome grief from the lad, ceptin' for his dour looks betimes. But still ye could be right, old friend."

And above, John Newton gripped the wheel these past forty minutes and noted the coming screech in the rigging. The plaintive growl and roll of the big hull. The wash of water being taken in. The pounding of his own heart.

He had overheard a little of the "Jonah talk". Had seen the increasing scowls on the faces of men without guile. Men who were loyal and brave, but gravely superstitious. Was he near the end? Were all of them?

After ninety minutes, relief came to peel the rigid hands from the wheel and to slap the back and to push toward the staircase. A dozen paces from his station, a giant surge soaked the deck and hurled John to the rail.

He thought, 'Oh wretched, lost, vile, friendless man that I am'. Hurried below.

In the closeness of his bunk, the others elsewhere on duty, he felt as condemned as the black cargo of despairing souls he had sometimes transported; as far from the love of God or man as that rebellious prophet at the bottom of the sea. Though Newton had never received theretofore any message or mission from on high. But now words and petitions were issuing from his innermost person, and a sense of the presence of God was leading him on and driving the storm from his consciousness.

That night of May 10, 1748, one godless sea-farer received the quickening realization and release of "Amazing Grace". His subsequent message, music and ministry would help end the slave trade in the British Empire; would help many souls of all colours to cast off the shackles of unbelief and trespass.

Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears relieved.
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed.