Tha Anchor

By John Butterfield

My life depends on ironwork, anvil forged

in nocturnal sea loch swell.

Wind: gale force eight.

The tempest howls; the rigging rings.

Sea state: rough.

The yacht rocks with violent swings

Visibility: poor.

Low cloud; the rain lashes; splashes.

Outlook: deteriorating

All is wild, disturbed and crashes

Far beneath angry black the barb bites

sludge, slime, weed and shale.

In my bunk, cosy, comfortable

sleep amid the ferocious gale.

Trusting the strength of every link

and the weight embedded deep below.

Today

Today
by John Butterfield



Between hope and despair is a nowhere place

where it is too soon for weeping

and too late for partying

and all is unsettled, uncertain, unclear.

And in this empty place

this place of waiting

there is, most strangely, a peace

a deep, deep, peace

that comes from the deep faith

that beyond all human understanding

somewhere amidst the uncertainty

God is at work.

And we, protected from the vast void of nothing

which is the possibilities of futures unborn,

we live and love and watch the flowers grow

in the unsentimental reality

that is the present moment.