He sat, pensive, pen in hand,
in his own private world where words ruled.
Writing was where he went
to escape the realities around him
It had served him well over the years.
Whether in a cemetery or at the kitchen table
He wrote out of a love of words and life.
Words of comfort, sometimes in poetic form or
often just a note. He never missed the chance to
pen his thoughts and pass along love.
His writing drew from a deep well of experience.
From long suffering and the early loss of a Mother
to feelings of guilt and self-doubt that were always there
darkening his days and scattering his joys like leaves in the wind.
But he endured, if not for himself, for us.
Wordsworth inspired his poems and were
a challenge that he worked at, a labor of love.
Words flowed from his pen
like some poetic river that washed
over his soul, soothing his worried mind.
Weatherhead inspired his curiosity and kept his
mind keenly focused on exploring theological truths.
But Christ was his anchor and kept him firmly grounded
in an unshakeable faith that promised tomorrows and tomorrows.
But it was Grace that carried him home.
Roy Davenport (C) 2009
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem