Don't Sea My Fear

Poetry Collection No. 9, includes Life as a House and The Gift

Hey friend,

This is my ninth poetry collection. I am so grateful you continue to read. It was inspired by Sunday afternoons at the beach, pregnancy with my third son, the movie Life as a House, and this C.S Lewis quote. 

Photo by Xavier Mouton Photographie on Unsplash.

Don’t Sea My Fear

My boys clamber the rocks while the sea, the sea, 

the terrible sea swirls. I shove my toes in the sand,

squirming as they climb. Imagine them slipping, 

cracking their heads, falling into the sea, the sea, 

the terrible sea. My stomach eddies and churns. 

Fear howls, clutches my heart, throws it

at my ribcage. Here’s a glance back, a sly catch

of the eye. I beam, rejoice, “Look at you so high!”

The shoulder drops, head turns back, chin higher, 

clambering into the sun. I feel the cost of letting go, 

but also how they need me to be firm rock under

their feet, while the sea, the sea, the terrible sea swirls.  

The Gift

I didn’t know, when I took

her boy, he belonged to her first. 

He turned in her womb, his foot 

grazed her hand through thin skin. 

I didn’t know, when I went 

to her house and she took

me in her arms, that she 

was also saying goodbye. 

She cheerfully handed over 

skin of her skin and bone

of her bone, never revealed 

any pain mingled with joy.

I didn’t understand her gift 

until I bore my own boys. 

He turned in my womb, 

his foot grazed my hand.

I know what it means to hold 

them, knowing one day

I will give them away. 

Lord, give me joy like hers. 

Life as a House 

I am a house in summer 

with a dead rat in the roof. 

There is nothing I can do 

about the warm, pungent 

stench pervading my house, 

nothing I can do to stop 

the feral flies from feasting.

I act like it is fine, no one sees. 

I am a house in autumn 

with laundry expanding 

from washing mountain

to washing ranges, 

the beds start and end 

their days in calamity.

The infestation is gone, 

I’ve worked hard, but 

I am paralysed. Strangled by shame, 

I cannot cry. I am a still life painting, 

only the breeze gives away 

the truth, “I am alive.” 

I am a house in winter, a light 

flickering on the verandah. 

I finally let him in when 

the electricity is cut off.

He has been waiting patiently 

on the verandah in all weather. 

I confess, I have not cared for him,

or his house. He forgives me. 

He prunes roses and trees 

until I am sure they are dead, 

stark sticks swaying in the breeze. 

He casts out squatters, 

removes relics and refuse 

(even those carefully hidden)

and scrubs every surface.

I am a house in spring

with blooming roses, 

trees laden with fruit

and an abundant veggie garden. 

I don’t recognise it. I am home. 

I’m tempted to enjoy it for myself, but 

He compels me to cook, fling the door wide, 

and say, “Let me tell of his kindness to me.” 

Thank you again for reading. My newsletter mainly grows through word of mouth recommendations from readers like you. If you liked this, would you please consider sharing it with a friend?

Check out previous poetry collections here:  

Cast the Coats Away | A Prayer for Words | I Feel Most Alone in Sterile Supermarkets | More