Black as ink the lake extends.
As still as night it sits.
Low grey clouds obscure the sun.
Colour is reduced, greyness wins.
Its cold tentacles enfold my soul and body.
Its icy fingers enclose my form.
All that moves are the ripples from
the tears as they drip silently into the water.
Silent, expanding ripples as I sit alone on the jetty.
This is something I do not want to write.
I want to turn my back on it.
To look away.
To close the door.
I do not want to go here.
But your hand compels mine.
Wherever I turn I see you.
You gently remind me of what I need to write.
Father, dear father, you are my refuge and being.
Through this past time,
you have protected me and supported me.
You have strengthened me and taught me.
You have fed me and kept me.
I live in this world and work in this world.
I walk it’s path.
A path that is changed as I proceed.
Like life itself it is made up of peaks and troughs.
Valleys and hills.
The world is an uncaring place.
Made so by he that rules it.
But I stand out of this world.
I stand in the place you have put me Lord.