Dropping off

Photo by mirsad mujanovic on Pexels.com

When I read that a family had pitched their tent on the edge of a cliff in Yorkshire
I wondered whether many of us had retained the natural intelligence we had as animals
rather than spending years in school then coming out with a low reading age
In the UK the average reading age has fallen from 11 to 9 in the last few years by some reports

https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2006/jan/24/books.politics

“Up to 16 million adults – nearly half the workforce – are holding down jobs despite having the reading and writing skills expected of children leaving primary school, a new report reveals today.”

This is shameful.Surely reading and writing should be higher than this for most people
It might explain some of our economic problems.How can we have a democracy when half of us
can’t even read the pamphlets we get before Elections?

Going back to the campers. is there no innate sense of danger in human beings in the West?
If you sleep on top of a cliff are you not likely to drop off completely forever?
If you sleep next to the bottom of a cliff you might be hit by a falling body or even a large lump of rock

Now shivering alive

The myriad random movements, words and signs
Inanimate, cold blooded,hot or warm
In mystery make the world, complete, designed

From the stars at night, to needles’ eyes
Every size is present eye to horn
The myriad random movements, words and signs

Yet, not robotic, shivering, alive
Like a human baby when new born
In mystery the world is fresh, designed

So every morning we awake surprised
The dreams we had afflict us like flung stones
The random movements, words and latent sign
s

Are dreams the truth or can the unknown lie?
Are we subject to their nightly roams?
The mystery is the world makes its design
s


As the wild geese land at one in storms
The murmurations of the starlings charm
The myriad random movements, words and signs
In mystery make the world, replete,divine

The sacred, silent space unoccupied

A virtual wall stops grace from being shared
.The still,small voice no longer can be heard.
The sacred, silent space unoccupied
No burning bush nor tempest speak the Word.
We centre all our self on the absurd
For iPads cannot pass through any I.
The still,small voice no longer can be heard.
God no longer feels inclined to share.
The golden clouds of angels cannot fly
No burning bush nor tempest speak the Word.
The altar’s stripped, the rituals mere nightmares
.The ancient priest says Mass and wonders why.
The still,small voice no longer can be heard.
A virtual wall stops grace from being shared.
Jesus is made flesh and , silent, dies
No burning bush nor tempest speak the Word.
No man is an island,John Donne cried
But now there is no truth to satisfy
The still,small voice no longer can be heard.
No burning bush nor tempest speak the Word