 Anchor me to your lovingkindness steady my feet on soft grass Tether me to the gentle stream may I bathe in living water, drink from your wellspring Moor me at the harbour of your grace a place to rest my head for dreaming Ground me in the hope of new life where space for stories grow, compassion and belonging. Secure me to the still small voice that I would hear you in the clamour and in the silence 
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 Down by the river no boys playing, banks submerged with rain - everything rushing, gushing, gurgling, sodden and soaking, debris caught and foaming. I watch the water mesmerised, it's a funny kind of sympathy she reflecting me: that spilling out, forcefully, an overflow of feelings days of rain and howling winds bring - of wondering, half-sleeping, weeks of lockdown and isolation familiar paths, unsettling us again and again. I'm a mess of worry and relief we know we're the lucky ones with animals safe, with house in tact that's dry and warm - spirit within us, hovering, rest and disturbance. Down by the river I'm a woman lingering, listening to the flow - birds are singing, darting in the trees and on my face blessed sun, shining.    there is life in the vine
in each and every season our growing and remaining a place to dwell in love in autumn as the leaves fall when mornings grow darker fruit is stored for what will come: cheer, loss, communion winter brings frozen things ground, breath, tired limbs, when we are slow and needy of every clear sky, of warming springtime flush of green life budding from branch and tree and the steady hum of bees, of children in bare feet in summer work and play, beating heat and flowering, when days begin to sprawl each raindrop brings relief there is life in the smallest leaf, in stretching and growing, ripening and rotting, in pruning and resting, refreshing at the roots each season is necessary its own kind of beautiful when we remain in love, there is life in Him. Above the bookshelf sits an accordion a birthday gift, she's older than me but we're alike in dusty ways leathery, blue, spiny ways, weathered with sounds and unspoken ones for six years I've played a melody of a painterly, light filled life: beautiful squares to return to, contain and be contained, and stare into I hold the accordion in my hands pull out a slow, long wheeze and contract into myself: an uncomfortable yet necessary thing I have given birth three times surged, panged, sore and singing a song as old as life itself - three living bodies emerged from my own I prepared myself for the labouring for expanding, expectantly, but it was afterwards, with babe at breast I felt my body do a strange and painful thing: my womb contracted, retreated in completion, shrunk itself and so I think it is with all creative work we puff up and shrink, concertina-like, we make and miss notes, we glimmer with goodness, dust and who knows what else: we grow, birth, contract, rest again and again and again. 
Down by the river
three boys barefoot looking for fish, frogs, and yabbie claws We marvel at the shallows, green and weedy, banks covered with reeds willows flowing with leaves poplars tall and shimmering, the littlest boy is crouching on a rock watching water bugs he sees me watching him and grins, It’s a mud pie heaven a place to sit watch rocks sink, forgotten fence posts stick up like rusty thumbs dragonflies land on them we notice tiny blue moths, flies and native bees. Three boys rivering, above them galahs flying, their mother revelling in watery reflection, thinking, we seem to come on the days we most need it.  Low days
always creep up and surprise me, a long overdue catch up with my body and she tells me I’m sore, spent the world outside mirrors feelings, the cold and unsure ones clouds smattered with sun and rain It’s enough to watch them to breathe a little deeper roll hunched shoulders back sip broth in a nice mug, to be frazzled and drink grace in, stroke kindness into tired skin.  early morning landscape
unfolds like a concertina of green leaves and bird song plantain, clover, magpie and wren - we breathe it out, breathe it in.
A message:
look above you white wafting clouds of ever-so-slightly blue and grey haziness softly enfolding you, permission to be unknowable, hidden from view. A covering: muted murmuring we all need slow-revealing, quiet patterning - or shelter from the heat or rain forthcoming or warning earth is burning. A gathering: of tears forgotten things sticks and stones blood, bone, water from the sea and air, sighs, prayers lingering. A blessing: maybe, a kind of blurry-edged respite, fear diffusing, a shroud for doubts and longings, transgressions like a cloud blotted out and scattered in the wind.
Sun’s out
school ends flowers open frowns fade grass grows birds sing hearts warm life springs  Springtime is springing buzzing, blooming, unfurling, cheeping All around us buds bursting birds singing we are hanging our winter bones to dry in the sunshine and ripple in the breeze we are planting out, sowing, pen to paper planning, ideas brimming - we are no longer dormant - baring our toes, elbows, our white legs - buds bones birds breath all around us springing |
ABOUT the authorEmily Clare Sims is a farmer and mama to three young boys. Each day she looks for ways to notice beauty, contemplate her faith and savour the seasons... Categories
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August 2021
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