Grace in the time of train strikes

Very nice Nice
should have been
instead sadness
shrouded by mourning
lives lost
to mad tragedy.
Grief's solemn stretch
scattered with so much remembrance.

French Nice to Italian Genoa
should of been simple
instead adventure
of a national rail strike.
No trains into Italy
except one leaving shortly.

Emergency plan ensued
fastest pack ever
hotel to station
a furious run
luggage flying
out of any thieves reach.

First train grasped
gasping for breath.
Chaos in Genoa.
Confused travelers
snaked seeking information.
Departure boards
signaled wide spread disruption.
A cheery recording repeating
sorry for the inconvenience.

A patient official
seemed genuinely surprised
our next train
was scheduled still
floating alone
in a cancellation sea.

Our time by the glorious coast
beckoned us
as we traveled onward
into night fall
by the grace of God.

Provence

Out of the palest of mid summer skies
the sun strikes on unyielding limestone.
Powder white dust
coats my black sandals.

Iconic lavender tumbles from every corner,
baking gloriously,
it's fragrance generous and hopeful.

Hill clung villages
on bleached crags,
perch above
chorus patchworks
of vineyard and olive groves.

Shimmering beauty
dares you to look from
precarious castle towers
to the dizzying depths
of vast plateau.

Crafted collectable treasures
beckon from tightly woven shops
along jostled streets.

Cool vaulted churches
with garishly painted saints
and votive candles
flickering their coin paid intercession.

Trunks of tangled olive trees
force their way through hard earth,
quiet observers of rich history.

Blessed Provence,
treasured place
of God and man's creation.

Historic Stately Houses

Hot Ham stone
centuries weathered,
pale colonies of miniature lichen,
bruised edges and chipped walls.
Towering chimneys like twisted marshmallows
preside over countless windows
staring at history past.

Lovingly reconstructed gardens
burst with measured English beauty,
wild nature captivated
by orderly minds.
Flower beds, vegetable gardens and old orchards
weighing generously with harvest expectation.

The cool interiors
and ancient oak staircases,
climbing upwards with so
many silent stories to tell.

Servants and masters
intrigue and passion
love and brokenness
moved in these majestic rooms.

Dusty rich tapestries
muffle footstep sounds
on thick planked floors.
Uneven flagstones
near the gaping hearths,
smooth and familiar.

May all be blessed
who seek to preserve the precious past
for future joy,
so we can glimpse
back in time
to those who were not so very different,
staring out at us
caught in heavy gilded frames.

The Great British Summer

I was asked to bring
some sunshine from New Zealand
because of the blessed abundance
of that fair land.

I found myself
unable to persuade
the Sun to leave
the Long White Cloud
and customs would have proved difficult.

The cold caught me by surprise
coming from a mild and bright midwinter.
I crashed headlong into the biting chill
of a British summer,
borrowing jumpers and jackets
and considering gloves.

Wishing the Sun would remember
where this fine spread of land lies
underneath the clouds and gloom.

The wind whips around
flattening the fragrant flowers,
trying to put on a brave show
in this inclemency.

The supermarket banners proclaiming
the Great British Summer
laced with unintentional heavy irony.

Central heating heaves
into unseasonable action
and we scan the sky for blue.
Next time I will pack some sunshine
and go through customs "Something to declare".

Find your voice

The thought police
have struck again.
Intimidation wraps
its suffocating bands
around those who
would consider
something
different
from the
forced philosophies
expressed at every turn
during a total fire ban
on free speech.

Moderate, conservative,
family friendly, upstanding.
Words of former generations
respected now reviled
and increasingly linked
with hate crimes.

Biblical world views
once the revered bedrock
of Western Civilisation
have been more than discarded.
They are attacked, shredded,
as intolerant and unacceptable.

How has what was known as good
become so vilified?
How has what was known as evil
become so praised?

Am I guilty of remaining silent
when I should be speaking?
Is there still time to speak?

Do I need at this late hour
to clear my throat
and begin to say what I believe
rather than being silenced by fear
of what might happen to me?

I cannot go into all the world
and make disciples
if I do not speak.

God give me courage to find my voice.