Journeys of the heart

As we approach this season of Advent may our eyes be opened to the beauty around, and it’s often in the ordinary we get a glimpse of the extraordinary and see reality as it is.

”This morning when skies cleared ”

This  morning as skies cleared

  suddenly  there they were,

just for the briefest moment,

dazzling jewels of rainbow raindrops

shimmering on the tired washing line

hanging there so fragile, yet so alive.

Dancing in the sunlight

Then the sun moves on and they are gone

But just for the briefest moment

my eyes were opened

to catch a glimpse of these diamonds.

Now returning to my coffee

another grey morning.

Yet just for the briefest moment.

clear vision, eyes opened.

to see these raindrops of hope.


Some of us are so aware of the changing days and seasons. October is a month of change as we move into the cold, storms  and darkness of winter. Let this time of autumn be a preparation and incubation for all to come…………..

The Great Migration

Across the mountains

of the Great Divide

like migrating swallows and swifts

we followed the winds

and crossed the seas.

Like following lost trails

or landlines etched in stone.

Tracing invisible paths

by ancient travellers,

finding the rhythms

of new journeys.

Now autumn winds blow cold

scattering gold streaked leaves.

Now anchored, watching

waiting for changing tides.

Still anchored.

When the light of morning comes

a stairway to silence.

Still anchored.

Long Days of June

Midsummer. The longest day. No matter what is going on in our individual lives we are reminded on this day that we are part of something bigger that continues to move on, and change is coming!!

Long Days Of  June

As I walk out

this midsummer  morning

Trees heavy with green leaves.

High grasses, cow parsley, and elder blossom.

Moving out of the cocoon of spring.

And there are those of us

who watch and wait

marking days, weeks and seasons

as we approach the full tilt

of earth towards the sun

on this longest day

in a changing world

felt in water, air and sky.

The wheel  of the world

still turns again.

Stars weep as war rumbles on

in distant lands.

 Midsummer? We welcome you!

Lament for Mariupol

Before the war with Russia Mariupol was a bustling historic city of 400,000 people. After 31 days of continuous brutal bombardment of missiles day and night its been reduced to a wasteland and totally flattened. Lord have Mercy…………..

Lament For Mariupol

Oh Mariupol,  city of death and tears

may your name be forever

burnt into our hearts and minds

for a thousand generations.

They sat amongst the smoke and ash

 saying ”when the well ran out

we had to melt snow on an open fire

as shells fell all around like rain

When we had no snow there was no water,

not even for the little ones”

Who will be a witness

of these evil days?

Oh Mariupol, how long?

May your name be forever

scorched into our souls

even for a thousand generations.

        Just a solitary nightingale

              singing through the dark

                        waiting for the dawn.

                                 We will not forget.

First Light of Spring

Many of us are living in tension between knowing its the season of spring, yet also seeing the horrors of the daily news from Ukraine. Yet Spring is still coming, even to the desert places.

First Light Of Spring

Even in these darkest days

yet still you come, Oh spring!

This the great up-rising, rebellion

Against death, decay and darkness.

Now new stirrings, awakenings

Of earth, sky, tree and plant.

Spring?  You always come again.

These seeds of hope now grow, burst forth

in colours of the dawn.

In desert places too spring comes

where stunning crocus bloom,

 Even desert places of our hearts

are touched again by light as

This earth’s axis tilts towards the sun.

 Spring?  We welcome you

even in these darkest times.

The month of January is traditionally known as the ”Month of Doors and Gates”. May we continue to find space to open and close those key doors in our lives as we move into the rest of the year…………

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The Cold Days Of January

An ice cold morning, walking through

frost on fragrant pine trees

to this place of open skies

where oyster catchers gather

and heron stretches its wings to glide

across the old harbour

This place

where cradled light reflects,

deep waters and roar of tides.

This place of terracotta, blue, grey,

 and copper red stones.

Sometimes depending on the wind

you can hear the sound of church bells

across the fields.

This place

A haven, a harbour, a home

to  where I come to find

the silent space between

the breathing in….and breathing out.

And here an ocean of possibilities.

Watching the winds change

and thankful for this extra light.  

The Dove In The Stone

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Look! Here you come

Sudden flash of white wing

Out of the billowing clouds.

Encircling, enfolded, flutter tongued

This tumbling white dove.

Now resting silent, still.

Your journey from the edge

you come to this rock’s heart.

Welcomed with open hands.

You’ve found a home in this stone.

This cleft in the rock

Is  where you return..

Then spreading your wings

on the soaring winds  you go.

And wherever you go

you find your way home

always find your way home

my dove in the stone.

”Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh, The Art of Suffering”

Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh

It’s out of season you know.

This gold, frankincense and myrrh.

Like so much in our lives at the moment.

And the art of suffering?

I’ll stay with the art

and try to avoid the suffering.

Spent a lifetime doing that but

now radiant gold shines out, woven

into the tapestry of life.

Fragrance of frankincense healing wounds

so costly the scars.

And precious myrrh poured out

transforming pain into beauty.

The tracks of my tears.

These winds that flow into

new rhythms and movements.

These gifts of wisdom to be opened.

Out of the suffering like a river

flows the art soaked with the

fragrance of heaven.

This poem was written as a collaboration with artist Linda Kelly’s painting

Cold Days Of Winter

Its been a long cold winter

and some of us now watching for signs

in these slow moving minutes and days.

Still cocooned, weaving our dreams

on the loom of our hearts.

Looking for early stirrings

of earth, leaf, shoots and sap

that come like the poetry

of our own unfolding.

Then days come when tectonic plates shift

shaking the ground beneath our feet.

The dark will bloom and sing again

in this wild silence when

hope lights up these

open skies.

Into the light..

In this time of transition and deep uncertainty and when we cross the threshold into the new season, may we yet find that ”still point in the turning world” that is waiting for us even in these wild wetland places…..

tuesday image

Song At The Years Turning

Let winter come

across these ragged wetlands

sparkling in the sun now low

in the morning sky. Soft light floods

this ancient place of mist and marshes.

when autumn leaves

fell like dazzling drizzle

blizzard of reds, gold and copper.

Fragrance of death and decay.

But winter comes

between wind and water,

call of the curlew

and the breathing of the trees.

Let winter fall

on the edge of this frontier place.

Still point of the turning world.

Between  known and unknown

flows the fire of



Some of us in exile, some of us in confinement again. Some walking the old pilgrim roads across Europe. Some of us on journeys taking us to places we don’t even want to be on, but there’s always another journey we can go on….. 

Like the flight of the falcon

Like the flight of the falcon

Soaring on the wings of the wind

Like the breath taking hawk

or dazzling wild geese turning south

high in the pale ice blue sky,

so other pilgrim travellers

cross  the mountains to what is beyond.

Heart of explorers, explorers of heart

Travelling light to the Gate of Awakening.

And  now a new road opens,

Beckons us, calls us again

And so the heart our last frontier.

It’s always been a journey,

but now it’s the journey within.

There  always was a journey

And now it’s a journey of heart.

Open roads, open skies, open heart.

Come healing winds come blow

upon the journey of the  heart.


You know that feeling when the tide has gone out!  Everything has changed. You can smell it in the air, feel it in the sand.  And sometimes for us too  the tide suddenly  goes out, and we wait….And so the movements  of  hearts and lives……..

 In  Sight Of The Shore

Came running  to the sea again

Only to find that the tide’s gone out.

Leaving behind  green salt grasses

and cockle pooled shell shore,

but the tide’s gone out.

Light breaks over silver skies,

strong winds blow billowing clouds.

Sands stretched to western seas

But the tide’s gone out.


dancing between the shades of light,

weaving their patterns across the bay.

Far horizons and white surf turns,

But the tide’s gone out

Beachcombing  treasures

In twine tangled  webs,

But the tide’s gone out.

I’m still  sat here waiting

For the turning of the tide.

Sometimes there are days when we wake up and know that everything has changed. Now we are living in the midst of such days Everything we thought was normal is no longer normal, but as we know   ”This too shall pass…….”

In The Days Of The Plague

When the shadow moved across our land.

When the plague dogs howled at midnight.

When the winds of death blew through the streets.

We remember.

When the raven stalked the evening skies.

When the tears they fell at midnight.

When the sound of grief was heard on high.

We remember.

When the shadow lifted from our land.

When we woke to skies so clear,

Wild flowers and the singing of the birds.

Stepped out, dazzled, dream again,

Into a world where everything had changed.

New song rising but we will never forget.

We will never forget.

plague image

The most important journey is our journey home. Through the storms and darkness this guiding light is still shining out. Today…….

The Lighthouse

There’s a fragment of dream here

or memory perhaps

of the roar of wild seas

crashing shingled sea shore.

Breathing in. Breathing out.

And there soaring above

the Old White Lighthouse

still shining out

through this winter storm.

There’s a light in the window

that’s calling me home.

Still point in a turning world.

Returning again

to where I belong.

This my house of light

This my house of stone.

This my place called Home.

Always on my Journey


  Picture by Denise Di Battista. with thanks.

This journey takes us upwards, always upwards, and then we emerge to see this new landscape spread before us. There’s a new invitation for us to explore. We’re hearing a different drumbeat others don’t hear, glimpsing the new vision, fully alive…..

Song Of Ascent

Ascending above this city of Trees.

And still the climb. Weary legs.

Above the fluttering sparrows,

darting swallows.

Above abundant green ferns,

spreading bamboo and morning glory.

Through early morning mists,

Jasmine fragrance drifts.

Sun bleached scorched stone.

Above storms and wilderness

This place of battle silenced.

Now hear the wind chimes,  far below

the ringing of a distant bell.

At last I  clearly see these far horizons.

Perspective changes,  walking with angels.

Now I rest raw, but tender

within this hidden garden

where song birds  play,

and cool breezes blow,

before moving on again.

 Ascending into this fierce light.

Always ascending

into the blue.

steve september image (2)

Sitting in darkness and the miracle of transformation happens again. Sometimes it seems unlikely, often unrecognized or ignored but I’m so glad that it comes afresh to our troubled world. Light floods in. It’s a new day.

 Towards The Dawn            Sierra Nevada

I remember

Those moments in darkness

silently sitting, waiting for sunrise

and the returning light of dawn

across the snowy mountain range.

I wonder, but will it really come today?

Then slowly, so slowly

over the horizon I see

golden glow of fire.

Shadows shrink, light pours in

and shimmers across the skies.

Land soaked with gold,

stained with light.

Again I honour the miracle

of transformation.


Sometimes  there are moments in silence when suddenly we see again those things that have become lost and  shrouded in mist, like Mount Ararat.  Beautiful Armenia. Time to see again………..

armenia pic 1

Ararat of Armenia

There you stand

Hanging in the sky like a precious jewel

Floating in the clouds

Ancient Ararat.

Still keeper of secrets in the snow.

Majestic mysterious mountain of hope

Above the city of winds

Resplendent with light.

Unveiled suddenly as clouds lift

and sunlight falls.

And sometimes too

there’s breathtaking moments

when inner mist lifts

and  we  glimpse again our Mountain

behind the mountain.

Clear vision, grace rinsed eyes


armenia pic 2

November 8th 2018 was the day when wild fires raced through the town of Paradise in California in a catastrophic way. In April this year we visited and could still see the destruction everywhere and had the chance to hear stories of survivors. It left a profound impression……

Hell in Paradise

The morning walk and plumes of smoke

are seen upon the ridge.

Then darkness falls

As sun is gone

with choking swirling smoke.

Scorching  winds howl through this land

bringing deadly fire storm

as wall of flames sweep through

destroying all before.

True apocalypse war zone.

And deathly silence. White ash

Like snow covers burnt out cars,

scores of homes and mangled steel.

A town razed raw.

Now walking through these ruins,

we see the picture of this Face.

Beauty in ashes. Tears for Paradise.

And still the birds they  sing,

today in Paradise.

Steve May picture


There’s a beauty and mystery to whales. It’s fascinating to discover that the communications and songs of whales can travel hundreds, even thousands of miles in deepest  oceans. For some of us they are also a symbol of days of great darkness when we have sat in their belly before emerging alive again………..

Song Of The Whales

Diving deep descend to depth.

Then bursting out above the seas

With  leaps of joy that dazzle.

These humpbacks, hammerhead,

blue, white  and orca grey,


And you know they sing?

Chorusing  their

haunting, ancient songs of beauty

echoing across the  oceans.

These mountains of the deep.

And sometimes in our dreams

they come

and swallow us alive. We sit

incubating deepest darkness

in that whale belly.

Till hurled out again,

staggering on dry land.

We’re restored to life,

stepping forward

through the gates of awakening.

Embracing new destiny

fully awake.


 Standing at the gates at the turning of the year, and hearing a new song rising. Walking into an unknown country of 2019, and never been this way before……….     

eagle image

Into the Wild

Spread your wings and fly

On the winds of the dawn

Knowing the call of the wild

comes calling again.

Into that unknown country

Crossing new frontiers

to what is beyond.

See snow capped mountain peaks

and golden eagles soar

and where we meet

the tenderness of wolves and bears

Heart of an explorer.

I hear this song

at the turning of the year

calling me again

into the wild.


There are days and moments when suddenly everything in our lives change and we find ourselves in completely new territory with many new lessons to learn. There’s no turning back…….

The Falling

Falling, falling

fierce white light, red heat.

I’m down, hit the ground

but not running today.

Piercing, searing knife

like shard of  jagged glass

takes my breath away.

A cry from lips and hip.

That moment when

everything changes…….

…And now the

cold blue steel and

healing scar I carry

tells my story.

Falling, falling

like autumn leaves,

leaves are falling.

the sea steve

I am always drawn to the sea and have had the good fortune of living close to the sea these last fifteen years. Always a place of encounter……….

The Turning Of The Tide

I want to go to the sea today

Taste the salt and smell the breeze

Hear the singing of the tides.

Ebb and flow, rise and fall.

Roar begins and falls again.

The swell is deep an deeper still

within. The echo of these seas.

The rhythms  and riddles  of the heart.

Again the rise and fall.

Again the ebb and flow.

Again the growing swell.

Movements of the heart.

Knowing I can’t hide

from the turning

of the tide.

So I was on a beach overlooked by the beautiful Isle of Arran. Its often in the ordinary that we get a glimpse of the extraordinary and see reality as it really is. Just a stone on a beach, yet another  doorway to walk through………

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Stones Of Fire

So I stumble upon this stone

washed up on Western shores

At low tide in soft evening light.

I watch and see the shimmer

from this ancient rock

as I hold it to the sunset skies.

Feel its warmth on my skin.

Took it home, scrubbed it clean

and see the thin blue vein

in this heart of stone.

I will polish that blue

shine it till the light shines through,

till its radiance is glowing.

I’m going to rinse that stone

rub it till the blue

shines through.

Glowing like fire.

Neversink 2

Its true that the greatest journey we can make is the inner journey of the heart. Like those cavers in Derbyshire UK who discovered the biggest cave in Europe from an old 200 year old map, we can be amazed at what we find.   #soulexplorers. #newhorizens

Titan Caves

The journey from mind

to heart is oh such a journey,

from mind to heart a journey it is.

Its like those cavers

tunnelling through honeycombed hills,

digging shifting rocks and stone

and slowly going deeper.

Seven years of bloody sweat,

and then that day- breakthrough.

By rope descend deep down

Into the unknown blackness.

Hanging there above abyss

till lights flicker and reveal

A cathedral, a sculptured cavern.

Majestic vast breathtaking space.

Unseen beauty.

The journey from mind

To heart is oh such a journey.

From mind to heart a journey it is.

There are days when the morning mist lifts over the East and its like the opening of eyes and ears long closed. Today its a new way of seeing…………

steve pic june

The Singing Bowl of Alhaurin

First light,

and there’s orange gardens, ragged

Patchwork of olive groves

spread before me.

And behind? The rim of Sierra Nevada.

Encircled by misty blue

snow-capped mountains

Creates this singing bowl.

Bark of distant dogs, bullfrogs

In these pastures of heaven.

Fragrance of jasmine,

chatter of chaffinch.

As faintest breathe of breeze

softly wraps around my skin.

And light pours through these hills.

Multi -layered mountains ripple back

as far as eye can see to sea.

In early morning light

flash of swift wing.

At last this singing bowl

Begins to sing.


dawn chorus just

to bless this


Sometimes its good to walk beneath the stars and gaze into the heavens on a clear night. I remember walking under the Southern Cross and the Milky Way so seemingly close in New Zealand. Such majesty brings such a sense of awe as the radio telescopes and observatories scan the skies. Out there is a story waiting to be told…………. 

Sky scanning 

And sometimes

It’s like those domed eyes to the skies

built high

in the soaring mountain peaks

where eagles fly.

Beneath those dark clear skies .

Those eyes that search the night.

They survey infinite tide patterns

and snow blizzard galaxies.

Deep space, distant worlds.

And now I too lift my face

to  heavens above, heart  so alert

to a silence in which

another voice may speak.

Waiting, looking, searching

I  interrogate the silence.

Eyes now trained and ears attuned

always listening, always waiting.

Earth and sky star gazing.

So we scramble across this rough, bleak lonely hillside. Here we find these  three small streams. Who would imagine that from these three springs come three of the greatest rivers of the nation

And so in us, That which appears so insignificant can in future days become  the most valuable of all. Sometimes it’s good to go back to the place of the source of smallness and insignificance and so often  that’s where we find the solutions and the keys  that we are searching for.


Springing up from this cold earth

That clod wet ground.

Sounds of icy waters flow

on singing dancing stones.

And from this source

wide rivers flood

shaping distant shores.

So now we come to fresh heart springs

of streams that rise today

And who’s to know there’s not dreams in us

That won’t flow  to distant seas?

From source to spring to stream to shore.

Its back to the source for me.


The Journey Home

Early that morning we set out

from the Great North West.

Signs in the sky as

wings of wild geese beat high above.

The journey home begins  for them as us.

They fly away to safe havens

catching their trade winds.

They’re  going home.  Ah journey  home.

I too feel that pull, that prompt

that inner radar, calling me home.

That place of heart  belonging.

Place of beginnings

place of roots

place of likeness

mosaic of presence….

…… Then turn oh heart

and walk towards the open door.


steve picture

It’s always  in these places where new grace is found for the next stage of the journey. Out on the estuary for me that night……

Stars, Tides and Breath

Above me, distant constellations

turning, moving.

Beside me waves roll in

turning, crashing on the shore.

Within me the heart beats.

I breathe in and out.

Pulse beats to heart rhythm.

Pulse beats.


And I?

I know yes!!

As the stars, so the tides,

so the breath, so the pulse.

So the patterns, colours, rhythms of life.

And so the silence.

The life I live.

The life that lives in me.

I watch the star patterned sky

listening to tide turning sea.

Touching the silence.

Then  silence touches me.

Sometimes as  we walk through these pine trees we learn to listen again, breathe and stand tall………


Wisdom Of Trees

So I’m told that

trees breath through their leaves.

Walking through these tall

Stately majestic pine,

Their rich canopy spreading

To the heavens above. Autumn

Leaves falling like golden rain.

Inexhaustible beauty of design.

Flash of blue jay early dawn and

Everywhere the sound of silver singing streams.

Shadows penetrated by light

like some ancient cathedral.

Breathing trees stand serene.

These immense silent firs.

Breathing trees fragrant pine.

Deeply rooted standing tall

Stretching to the heavens,

Teaching me to breathe again

Teaching me to stand

Teaching me to live.

Wisdom of trees

steve picture

So I climb steadily high up on the hillside on a late spring evening , and sit watching the movement of the tides, tasting the salt in the breeze. Just these few moments of real stillness, and a new way of seeing. New vision. Now I can breathe again.


There is an ocean of colour

Before me.

From turquoise blue, deep green

and mercury grey.

Shafts of silver through dark cloud

And dazzling white light dances sparkles,

Cascading down.

A tapestry, a patchwork of light

Ever changes, moving sea before me.

Below hard rock, grasses

And guillemots cry.

There are moments when

Eyes open.

New ways of looking when

Sight becomes insight and

commonplace transfigured

With a new sense of wonder.

Island of Moving Tides.

…..I love to meet those who have walked the Borderland trails and returned with stories to tell, and recently its been a privilege to sit and listen to some of their stories. Stories of hope in the midst of the storms. Stories of failures and broken dreams, yet transformation. A place of longing, and crossing over. Welcome to these trails………



We’re learning to walk

Softly along these borderland trails,

And even lived there for a while.

These rugged places between

The known and the unknown.

The reality and the dream.

Between success and failure,

Light and darkness.

Earth and Heaven.

Word and song.

Head and heart.

These new frontiers on the edge.

A wide place. No maps here.

To have crossed the borderlands

And returned with stories to tell?

What stories to tell!

Wild places, these borderlands.

Again they call.

And then sometimes there are moments when everything becomes clear. The fog lifts and we can see, sometimes for the first time. When we can glimpse beyond ourselves to the greater reality, and then new doors swing open. We treasure moments like these………….

           TRINITY SONG

And that river of glory

that flows cascading full of

passion, presence, beauty, joy.

That twisting, dancing river

through and out beyond me flows.

That song rising.

That great dance, rhythm of life

flowing, swirling, flowing life.

My Father, Son and Spirit

Circle of love enfolding

through and out beyond me flows.

Circle of life extending.

And you come again to me

lifting, weaving fragments, parts

streams of my life.

Joining me to your laughing

Great, joyful, triumphant dance.


I worship


Your story is unique, totally unique!! I read an article once that asked the question ”Who knows your story?”  Nobody really really knows your story- except you. As I was reflecting about this I realised that not one person on the planet knew the story behind the scar on my hand. Only me. And I went on to reflect on the story my hands held. What’s the story in your hands? And what seeds of destiny are held there? 


I’ve met those

Who read destiny

By gazing at lines

Engraved on the palms of hands.

And me?

I read history in mine.

Look at these hands!

So uniquely finger printed.

And who knows their story?

Eight fingers, two thumbs

Two ragged scars

Now one torn

One golden ring.

Two hands

One hand held stone that stayed

That night on cliffs when all else

Turned to clay.

One skin.

I’m told that skin holds memories?

In hands now marked by history

We find new seeds of destiny.

Come blow new winds of destiny

Upon these seeds now blow.

New seasons, new rhythm, new dreams, new hope. Its Spring!  And so the year moves on. For ten years we lived in a house in Wales where I was amazed every March of seeing the yearly miracle explosion of colour in an old seemingly dead bush. I wrote this five years ago after a particularly cold winter.


Its been a long cold winter

Bitter winds blown across the estuary.

Looking from my window I’ve watched that bush

That shrivelled-dead bleak barren bush

Battered by winter winds.

March comes and brings early promise.

Flecks of gold on branch appears.

Hints of hope spring upward and

Become vibrant lemon-yellow flakes.

Forsythia sings spring!

This morning from my window

sunshine streams down

Upon that bush

Blaze afire with life.

Luminous fire-bright bush


Keeps burning.

At last you have my attention.

I come again and listen.

Steve Pic2

In 2009 we flew into Darwin in Northern Australia, then drove down to near Katherine, out in the Bush. For many miles we saw burning scrub by the side of the road. Here we visited an aboriginal community and what a privilege to sit and hear hear their stories!!. Later we went on to Sydney and visited Botany Bay where Captain Cook’s first ship arrived.  What a contrast to what we had experienced with the Aboriginal community, what a sense of history! And so the poem:

Kaman –   Botany Bay

Today I’m standing on the edge

of this ragged bay, towards the sea.

The ache, the air, the wind and trees.

And eight days that changed everything.

What was seen by watching eyes

From where I stand today?

What plague ships came on evening tide.

From distant shores to wound the land?

What death winds blew

To scatter life and seed?

An ache, a groan, a sigh, a cry.

And this ……

The birthplace of a nation?


I return again

Again I return

To that amazing inner sanctuary

That cathedral of Spirit

That spacious place

Deep within


That dwelling of light

Chambers of heart

Place of His voice

Place of His presence.

To this place I come


There is a secret pool

Of stillness

Where gentle breezes ripple

Across from distant mountains.

To this place

I return again.


Of heart



Panel 1






I’ve heard it said

That there are days

When diamond dust

Glitters in the still frosty air.

There are days when

We wake up to ice crystals

Tumbling out of thick fog

When glitter floats around

Sparkling in bright winter sunshine

Like diamonds.



Days when

Clouds of diamond dust form

And walking through

We imprint them with our bodies.

There are days when

Heaven comes close,

when eyes are opened

Veils become thin

And glory shines through

In sunburst splendour.

Days when

skins imprinted

With Heavens dust

Leave us breathless

In His Presence.



So we go on an overnight silent  retreat,  sleeping out under the stars on the cliffs of the Gower Peninsular in Wales. In the morning we scatter to find individual places of prayer . I scramble down the rocks under the unusually hot sun and find a small bay where I stay by the rocks as the tide comes in.

I  start to write and the words flow. As I write I begin to see that these hours spent here were really like a mirror encapsulating the last 5 years that my life had been.

  This was some time ago now, but I have never forgotten that morning by the sea. And so the poem  Three Cliffs Bay …..

Three Cliffs Bay

Here am I

Perched, wedged between the rocks,

skin and bones squeezed between these

Hard places.

Pushed back, confined by incoming tide.


Hiding from scorching sun.

And doesn’t this describe my life?

Seeking  a hiding place from

The unchangeable, unarguable elements.

The absolutes of life.

The sea, rocks and sand

that’s shaped where I’ve ended up.

My skin and bones are soft

in comparison to these elements.

There are some things you can’t argue

or even dialogue with.

I feel  very human this morning.

Very aware of vulnerability.

Yes, and now the tide turns.

I see the high tide mark on the cliffs.

Rocks waterlined.

The tide has turned

And I need to move with this tide.

God says, The tide has turned

In my life.

And I move out from restriction

And explore again.

The tide has turned.

I go down to freshly emerging sand

And mark new footprints

And claim new ground as mine.

As tide retreats I continue

This expansion

Then taking shoes off,

Holy ground.

Splashing into waters

Tears rolling down cheeks.

God, this is intoxicating!

Then two swimmers swim round

From next bay and enter my cove.

My appointment is over.



Sometimes there’s a blank canvas in front of us and that can be frightening, but there can be new conversations with Father that begin to open up new treasures within.  Sometimes we need permission to dream afresh, especially when hope lies broken on the ground.

And then vision begins to flow again, and new destiny begins to emerge.  We do indeed have influence in high places as Sons and Daughters. Truly.  I wonder what He is calling forth in us today?  New songs, new artistic designs, poems, dances, strategies, creative thinking?


And that my ideas, desires and dreams

Can move you, shape your world?

A co-labourer, a collaborator

A friend, a son?

So  there’s room for my spontaneity?

I can dream with you, dance with you

Talk with you and so you

Unlock deep wells of creativity.

My life the gate of Heaven?

‘This is my wake up call, my trumpet sound for you.

Dream afresh, sing, shout.

Your dreams are my raw materials and that which is crushed I release.

I’m calling forth visions, dreams and songs.

I come to lift you up.’

To stand before you  In the full authority of sonship.

You lift me up To share your throne.

To shape your world

To shake the nations

I worship


Panel 2


Steve Smith is a husband to Issie and a father of two grown up children. He enjoys travelling to different countries, photography, football and music; he has been a Leeds UTD supporter for many years. Steve’s love of Celtic Christian spirituality is a source of inspiration for much of the poetry that he has written. He put these poems together into a book called  ‘The Edge of Silence’. Steve now lives in Wales with his wife.