A Love Letter (For C).

The way

that

the

sky

tenderly

holds

up

the clouds

even

when

they

storm

furiously

across

his

gentle

surface

a pellucid

background

always

allowing

the stars

to shine

brighter

than

him

cradling the moon

in his arms

when she’s

waning

and holding

her

up

proudly

for the whole world

to see

when

she’s

full

wearing the sun

as

a

crown

without

ever

asking

for more

than

simply

being

allowed

to

love.

— (For C.) A love letter.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

The places I cannot go, yet.

I am

a house of

many rooms.

Quiet, dusty corridors

sunlight

gently

dripping in

like liquid

gold.

How I love to drink my tea,

a lovely Assam,

malty on the tongue

and comforting,

as I walk through

these spaces

gently touching

things

I had

almost

forgotten.

But not

yet.

It is comforting

to find

old friends.

You,

and you,

and even

you.

We must stay in

touch,

I say

to the past.

But

some doors

are

locked.

In dark corners

where the

light

does not

quite

reach.

And try as I might

when I stand before them

trembling key in

hand

I cannot enter.

I cannot enter

though

I must.

There is

work

to be done

within,

but not

yet.

And so,

instead

I sit before them

quietly

weeping

ink

onto paper.

Until.

— The places I cannot go, yet.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

Becoming Mary.

And

there are times

when

I am

Martha.

Choosing

the

brief

comfort

that

zealous

labour

brings

when

broom

in

hand

I strive to

regain

desperate

control

over this

valley.

But,

there is

a time

and

a place

for everything

and

Rest

is

not

afraid

of dust

and

disorder.

And

there are

holy

feet

to be

sat at

where

these

withered bones

can be

revived.

So,

I

sit

allowing

my

tender

faith

to

unfurl

as

the

world

hurries

by.

— Becoming Mary.

Conversations with my brother (On the eve of chemotherapy).

And so the

time

has

come.

Tomorrow we

straighten

our

spines

and

cast our eyes

up

because

we know

from where

our help

comes.

And

when

the first

fiery

drops

slip into your vein,

silent

and

ruthless,

we speak

life

over every part

of

you

and

death

to that

which

came

in the night

to

steal

and

destroy.

And

I may be

far,

but I will be

near.

And

know this

you are

not alone.

You are

loved.

You are

carried.

And

tomorrow

we stand

and

we fight.

—Conversations with my brother. (On the eve of chemotherapy.)

©Liezel Graham. 2018.

{Tomorrow, my younger brother starts an intense chemotherapy regime for pancreatic cancer. I have written two other posts called ‘Conversations with my brother’ and should you wish to read the others, just search for ‘Conversations with my brother’ and they will come up.}