You carry the scaly logs
Over your swollen shoulders
Traipsing through the endless bog.
It strains your worn-out muscles,
But you've grown used to the
Early morning hassle.
The tramp is a long one,
Four or five miles uphill,
But you rest when you're done.
When you turned thirty-three,
You found a place near the stream
And there you felt so free.
You walk there every day
On the outskirts of home,
Because you memorised the way.
Scraping over bare shoulders,
The dry wood leans against
You like hefty boulders.
Your daddy taught you to bear
More weight than your bones
So your skin will not tear.
Although silence surrounds
In the brown grass blades,
You can hear the distant pounds.
And when you finally rise
Bounding from rock to rock
Only daddy can hear your cries.
For you laid down the wood
Into the shape of a cross
Where your Abba once stood-
Before he sank into the water,
To hide you under his arm
In a merciful slaughter.
YOU ARE READING
Strength
PoetryStrength is a selection of poetry about an inner spiritual strength. Sometimes when we are feeling most weak, our spirit opens up like a tree within us. Poetry has always been a way for me to express the beauty and strength I see in God's world when...
