Crunching along the path,
the black skies reflect
on how easily I mislay my peace:
Like a five pence coin, a TV remote
or a needle in a haystack.
They used to call it the Pax Deus.
Better it is,
than the Pax so-called
of Romana, Britannica, or the
Americana we have these days.
Passing all understanding makes it fragile.
like a light bulb in your pocket.
Funny how it still seems to work
when the room goes dark.
The river at my side grumbles,
as does my heart.
And my mind?
It just comes along for the ride
as the clouds form an angry congregation.
And on days like these,
when I can’t decide
if my soul is cold or warm,
I hurl my praise in Your direction,
the God of the sun and the storm.