The God who loves me. one

I wandered weary and lost

through lonely streets

in winter nights

and summer heats.

I walked in darkness

all alone.

I looked for peace,

but hope was gone.

A long hard roads I walked,

cold it was, and dreary

on I struggled

afraid and weary.

Why me, I thought?

What have I done?

no one replied,

not even one.

I asked for help,

for someone to care

nobody answered

as though I wasn’t there.

on, on I walked.

in loneliness and pain.

If I could find an answer,

I would be free again.

As I walked one day

along a lonely lane.

I came across a chapel,

just standing in the rain.

It was a shabby

little place.

But it had

a certain grace.

Hanging on the wall,

was a tattered little sign.

All torn it was

and covered all in grime.

I walked across to see

what the sign could be.

The words were very simple

but they seemed to speak to me.

It said for all to see.

“Your God loves you”

Who is this God I thought,

and why should He love me?

What could I lose I thought

nothing more could harm me.

so I set forth,

to find the God who loves me.


Chaunticlair the cock

Chaunticlair the cock

left his pen one day.

he got into the chicken coop

and offended all the hens.

oh what a riot there was

and how the feathers flew.

the chickens did not make a fuss

they even formed a queue.

they flew and fluttered

all around the coop

and chaunticlair gave chase

it was a merry race

all the chickens had a busy time

as they danced around the floor

and every one had their turn

but some came back for more

some might complain

about such a merry do

but nature is as nature does

and it’s what a cock will do.


chaunticlair the cock

poem about a cock and chickens


sleeping beauty

she lies in beauty

deep in sleep,

and i in silent

wonder weep,

that i could be

so blessed

to lie beside such


lying in quiet rest.

could nature by itself

create such grace

or did a firmer hand


such a glorious line.

Silver light shines on grace

and I in silent wonder


as beauty lies


And Some Just Watched


They tied him to a post

and whipped His naked back.

They mocked Him as they beat Him

and His blood ran nearly black.

And some just stood and watched.

They gave Him a crown of thorns,

and a great red robe to wear.

they gave Him a cross to carry

on burning pavement stones.

And some just stood and watched.

They nailed Him to a cross,

straight though His hands and feet.

they drew lots for His clothes,

and vinegar to drink inn boiling midday heat.

And some just stood and watched.

He gave hope to a dying sinner.

Eloi, Eloi He cried in fear.

In trust he gave up His spirit,

and they stabbed Him with a spear.

And some just stood and watched

He was raised again in glory

to make us one in faith.

so God can make us children.

and live with Him in grace.

And some still stand and watch.

To the church mouse.c/o Sir John betjamine.

letter to church mouse poem

reply to poem by John betjamine


N.B This was written long before the ordination of women was thought possible. There is a reference to a vicar wearing a frock. This refers to a man in a cassock. there is no offence intended,  I hope there is none taken.

Small mouse, you wee timorous creature

who lives within the house of our Creator

in dark and forgotten places,

where we humans rarely go.

Who hides behind long discarded hassocks

And sleeps on old and grubby  cassocks.

think on us who stand outside

who rarely dare to step inside,

where only the good may go.

It’s  true it must be said

That we will sometimes enter in,

Often when a couple wed,

Or to wet the baby’s head,

Or, on occasion, when one of us is dead.

But we rarely dare to stay there among

the graves of long forgotten Knights.

Where statues of old men in tights,

Look down with disapproving eye,

as we try

to follow some ancient liturgy,

and wonder why the vicars got a frock on.

Tell us what to do

and when to stand and when to sit,

do we sing the anthem bit.

or is that just the choir?

Will we be consumed by heavenly fire

when a cold deadly stare

Tells us we are sitting in someones chair?

Good mouse we would gladly sing our Saviours  praise.

But we are told we have to know our place.

What is that place, and where?

And are we really welcome there?

Good friend eat your fill of  festive food.

Think of us and eat with a will.

eat it all, eat  the tower

and the steeple.

Eat it all, but save the people.