Where healing is found

In the shelter of your wings I rest,
cradled in your cotton wool of love I find warmth;
arrows and bullets may fly past but they are like
straw to you.
Time is in your hand and you control
it entirely, with each word you breathe into me,
I revive.
Darkness transforms into light as I sip
from the cup of life while strength mounts up
inside like bricks, creating a temple of victory
out of the ashes of sorrow and defeat.

In the shelter of your wings I was, now
mended I am and stronger I stand.


My Anchor

Catch me quick – I’m sinking.

The more I reach out for you, the faster. I. Sink.

Did it ever occur to you that perhaps…the more gaps in the map of

our relationship were something to be filled and healed?

But no…all you could see were the treasures and rewards

you could win – evidently. My requests for change

were a muted plea to a guy who, only truly

thought of he – he who took my heart and blew it kisses

and wanted to do all things but call me his Mrs. 

A guy would change his mind…his heart if it was 

important to me right? Wrong!

With the sharpest tongue I was silenced, no more

would He who is my try majesty ever allow me to

be perused without a license.

Who is he that my heart has become unlocked and my 

focus has been diverted?

Like a wife at home, my first love has been perverted.

Catch me quick – I’m sinking.

And you were the reason…with your weakness and self-love, 

I followed you like a lost lamb, drifting to my death

until He caught me again. He that dusted  me 

off and changed my name, who blotted out my

sin and called me forth from my shame.

Sinking. Sunk…but rose again.

How will you let your story end? 


And If She Meant The World

I was enthralled by her beauty. Completely.
In the very aspect of her being.
In the smile that always came from the right side of her lip.
The way in which summered breezes danced in her hair.

Her eyes that contained a universe. A depth frightfully engrossing.

In the manner she took when, herself, she lost in thought
And then ask the same question, ‘Do humans fly?’
No, my love, but angels do. Mon ange. Mon essentiel.
If my feelings for you, formed wings and took flight,

My dear, I’m afraid I will never again know land.

On the border of reason;
In the maelstrom of the chaos that shaped my mind,
Would you love her still, a voice whispered, were the world to end for it?
Foolish. The question itself was asinine.
She is my world.


The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Derek Walcott (23 January 1930-17 March 2017)