The Thinking Poet


Nicodemus Bemused

Clouds are the weathercock of winds:

Drifting from southern fire-feasts,

Scudding from western waves,

Threatening from grizzled northern skies,

Biting from the east.


I have travelled with them in summer’s indolence,

Hung on, white knuckled, wet with ocean spray;

Ridden them, blue-nosed, with rimy boots, collar up;

But always in the airy freedom

Of sky’s vast kingdom.


“The wind bloweth where it listeth”; archaic words.

Christ, in Aramaic, bemused Nicodemus with metaphor;

Spoke of winds flaunting their freedom,

Targeting everything with neither forethought nor malice,

Speeding the sail, or sinking it.


But Spirit, free as grace, purposefully searches,

Seeks the welcoming heart,

The responsive part of God’s art;

Delves with patience and pity to find resonance,

 Some reciprocity of joy in us.