Hound of Heaven Hymns - 2026 ~ Rough Places Plain

telescoped time 2

a device in dramas
defying the unities
but never in real
life till now the
distance brought
larger and clearer
clunk collapsing
when eye and scene
crash in to compact
ness for travelling
not seeing you yet
the images remain
being burnt upon
my retina and my
heart those moments
of parting like no
other in intensity
and radical change
who am I what is
was will be reality
anchored to our
passing yet eternal
union where love’s
mystery recalibrates
transfigures and
enchants turning
dross into gold as
it forges the bond
of bliss made in
heaven by love
himself

The puzzle ~ a villanelle of the questioning life

Life questions who am I and why’re we’re here –
There is a path as through the years we grow,
The soul takes thoughts into a myst’ry clear.

With early dangers soon we learn to fear
The world and people might become our foe;
Life questions who am I and why we’re here.

The wise and loving give us hope and cheer,
They share the riches of this life to know
The soul takes thoughts into a myst’ry clear.

We tread with care by edge’s drop so sheer,
Disaster’s near and joy can turn to woe.
Life’s questions who am I and why we’re here.

There is a light by which we all can steer.
A course through time’s relentless deathly flow:
The soul takes thoughts into a myst’ry clear.

Eternity is now and ever near.
It beckons from above and from below:
Life questions who am I and why’re we’re here –
The soul takes thoughts into a myst’ry clear.

the strait and arrow

near yet far the narrow
ribbon of water bars all
but ear and eye can I fly
to reach the unreachable
harpooning a line to link
and build a way – my
arrow prayers are darted
pleas for help across the
styx dark lethe crossed
by many and now my be
loved it is such a flight
of longing yearning
aching loss and love
so straight and narrow it
lands from heart to heart

Leaves ~ a cyclical sonnet written in autumn

The canopy of leaves is branched above,
They bud so slow so fresh in vernal green
To shoot like fingers in a glove
And form the panoply of glory seen.
Through wind and rain and sun of summer days
They make a tree alive for coming years;
Then comes an end with glowing autumn blaze:
Their work is done, their beauty falls like tears.
This yearly cycle teaches us new truths:
Our days, like leaves, are short but beauty filled
Because we’re loved by power which nothing proves
Save life is all when death has all life killed.
The leaves of life might skitter at our feet
But they’re a sign that dashes bleak defeat.

(written in Côte Brasserie, Covent Garden, before a performance of Parsifal and dedicated to Sayed, the kindest of waiters)

ground of being

the ground upon we walk
seems certain solid true
we rarely think that at a
stroke all can change the
ground of being no longer
ours to assume and rely
but changed to a free fall
the scenes the same now
viewed completely changed
by eyes no longer fed by
light from you with touch
and breath the unspoken
all that propels and fuels
the directions of love and
purpose the base meaning
moved and messed to be
left with fragments as parts
parted fit together in
mysterious silent fusion
arching over – no longer
through – time both
waiting and I longing with
the ache of steps still to
make and a heart that beats
in flesh but yearns to soar
that the promise of love yet
again draws enfolds ignites
in the ecstasy of fusion and com
pleteness never found in the
partial now but in the allness
that once was and ever will be
o certain land ground me in the
clouds of unknowable knowing

The eye of the needle ~ a sonnet

The heavy laden camel is too wide –
The narrow alley’s fit for just a beast.
Logistics cannot cope with physics pride
In making most of all we want the least.
To thread a needle takes a steady hand,
An eye needs eyes that lock the gaze to sew:
There is no deal or bargain here to land –
Truth must change us if we want to grow.
This makes a problem when we find we’re rich,
We’re judged already by the things we own;
Possessions cause us all to drop the stitch
That makes us poor for ever and alone.
The eye’s true sight is found within each soul:
In poorest freedom find we richest goal.

Sonnet of sacrifice ~ 1

The word we use slips quickly off the tongue
For sacrifice is safe with costed price.
This risk is well but nought – no heart is wrung –
True blood is spilt in choice and roll of dice.
Our worlds collapse when faced with death’s true toll;
Our lives are never truly ours alone,
Much more unknown must change our human goal
Oft hid in loss and pain, each silent groan.
Thus disappointment is a blessing true
To switch our gaze and thoughts towards a light
That only shines when self to others flew –
And makes a vision bright in darkest night.
Now sacrifice brings life whate’er the cost
And brings abundant gain when all is lost.

Written on the train to see the Anish Kapoor exhibition in London

A sonnet for the over engineered

The world is full of nuts and bolts unseen:
They’re made by us like bricks to build our power,
Not welded but entwined, a mean machine
To join and hold by screw through every hour.
They’re strong and last much longer than our days,
They also blind us to the way ahead
That lies beyond the narrow selfish gaze,
The world we build and prize until we’re dead.
But life surprises – holy love doth call
In body’s beauty warming mind and heart
To sigh with spirit’s breath in raptured thrall
When every soul awakens with a start.
The engineering self is doomed to fall,
Love’s realm is truly ours when found in all.

A sonnet of stasis

The world’s so different when we stop awhile,
Our days in motion set a pace of haste.
It’s only when we halt or sit, we smile,
And many people feel in life we’re chased.
This pace is set by deadlines we must meet
And then all else must scramble on aboard;
Life hurtles on – each day will ne’er repeat,
So spent this life by price we can’t afford.
The pulse of life needs measure so we rest;
Such space gives fuller meaning for our souls –
A view and thoughts to challenge and to test
The health and purpose of our daily roles.
Beware the dust of a stampeding herd
Which blinds us all in mindless vision blurred.

(written on a train between London and Rochester late at night)

The Skein ~ a sonnet of war and peace

There is a skein that runs through life and time,
A hidden web set in this world of ours,
Though mostly hid, it’s writ in human crime.
Each self will lie – combine in evil’s powers –
It’s often hard to call, e’en harder own –
The way we work makes cover for a show.
Denying, frightened, all the hat that’s sown
Is formed anew in reimagined foe.
We’re set against each other yet we’re one
As creatures born to live a life of love.
There’s always hope – the daily rising sun
Tells of a power that comes from high above.
Lift up your eyes from selfish means and ways:
Let peace abound, redeeming earthly days.

(written on a train between Rochester and London)

Sonnet of sacrifice ~ 2

Walls of blood and lumps of entrails raw,
The invert mountain hanging close and low
Where God instructs a death in horror’s awe
Before the knife is stayed from father’s blow.
The call of sacrifice runs long and deep
To expiate the darkness facing all;
This blackness beckons – all time and matter reap –
Its presence real in holding us in thrall.
By contrast, light reflected changes every view and sight:
The sky below, the ground above our feet,
Our ordered world remade in visions bright
To challenge all as myst’ries cost we meet.
Short life is here displaced in wonder’s clue
This world is open to a view more true.

Written after a visit to the Anish Kapoor exhibition
at the Hayward Gallery

A sonnet of terms and conditions

We set our terms on everything we do,
Conditions seem to make us who we are.
All this makes safe, we think, our world where few
With power exploit all lives both near and far.
‘To gain and ne’er to lose at my expense’ –
We’re taught these jungle rules right from our birth;
My interests frame this self of mind and sense
As people live in fear of loss and dearth.
This globe is blessed by untamed weather’s bite:
Beneath the skies we face creator’s hand
So even clouds and storms bestow new sight –
Conditions, terms, are set by love’s new land.
Life’s ways and means are never truly ours
In mystery’s sweet unfathomable powers!

signature 2

whatever he wrote it is a
mystery set in the dust the
Word incarnate pitching
his tent in time to challenge
us with forgiveness the
miracle of restoration new
life this signature is a
promise like but more than
a signed cheque or contract
our signature dies when we
die but it is written in a
dust of glory taken from
our eyes and powers into the
realm of the unique image
created and now redeemed
as clocks tick and deadlines
loom nothing is lost and
nothing is our hope the
negation of the falsities of
a compass that encompasses
self as the cardinal points of
a universe a creation that
passes like our transience
in the mortality of the ishness
from which self must die and
escape my signature says
nothing save that I’m loved by
the one who recognises the
hallmark of divinity written
engraved on my heart and the
one which beats and stops at
the same time