The bleak

I have lived so long in the bleak.
Bent over
back to the whipping wind
grasping at God-shelter to grow just enough green.

There’s limestone beneath.
Ancient sea-bed now coursed with recent rains.
It flows through my toes.

God, you whisper
“Wind and water, wind and water. Hold on. Hold on”
And I do. It is grace.

This church that blows and blusters
will blast on.
And I, wizened, weary and swayed,
will yet rejoice in the green.

Formed.