Last week, after I drove my husband to the field

and helped him change the flat tire on the harrow,

as he returned to the work with tractor and machinery,

I walked the land.

Across the hay field still early spring brown,

small birds flying up from bunched tufts of dried grass,

the high above me calling screech of a soaring watching hawk,

I walked toward the bush.

(When we were children, "I'm going to the bush," we would say,

a few minutes walk from our farmyard.)

I stood for a minute, on the edge,

looking at field, looking at trees,

and took the step,

sinking into the woods with a sigh.

If God had a mother, what would that be?

The Creator becomes a beloved child,

held in the arms of compassion and boundless human love.

Did it delight the heart of God, to feel the personal side

of a mother's sacrificial care,

when she rose up willingly, night or day,

to see to the needs of her precious child?

Was she on his mind when he prayed

to avoid the coming torture;

did he think of the pain his death would stab into her?

"Woman", he would call her, and honour the word.

The cool air will not save me

but it soothes my heated brow

The bird's song tells no answer

but it calms my doubts somehow

The sunshine brights the world

but not the dark inside my head

The trees stand by in loyalty

when there's nothing to be said

Turtle:

Crust-encased, armour-braced,

so geometrical,

your contrast lines symmetrical.

Descendant of a dinosaur,

survivor of the fitness war.

Lizard-like you raise your head

and test the air for what you dread.

On land, slowed by your hard shell tent;

but water is your element

-you flash by in the cool pond, free,

unburdened now by gravity.