Stephen McGuinness makes me happy humans were given the gift of words and thought.  To read more of Stephen’s work, please visit poetry with a small p.

“Quiet confounds me.
I search through a
Clam-tight mind

To find something,
A thing, a piece, a collection
Of words, to explain,

To describe, to myself
Most of all, what,
If anything, is going on.

Hush rushes, quietly,
Through leaves that cling,
Still, to mothering branches.

Crushed underfoot,
A tentative mushroom,
Cream flesh, grey gills in shards.

Grass, alive once more
On new found rain,
Blankets, swaddles dampened clay,

Musty, crumbling in hand,
Tumbling through fingers
Darkened and stained.

What lies buried,
In layers, beneath this?
Something? Nothing?

Fuel for faith? Belief?
Evidence to truth?
Reassurance, a salve for guilt?

A kiss for the conscience?
Forgiveness? Absolution?
Implored infinity?

This is not working for me.
My dog has stopped
As I have stopped,

Sat, risen, walked
As I have walked,
Followed without question.

A quickening realisation that,
Despite wishful thinking,
And hopeful hope,

The mothered leaves will soon fall.
Simply become soil.”