Lord, this is pip-squeak calling.
Even with your infinite technology
I expect your line’s busy. Therefore
forgive me my witter, tucked up
as I am in my comfy-comfy
with the telly and all its disasters on.
I expect you’ve seen. I expect
eternity’s in Widescreen.
I hardly like to mention my imaginary
ills, the disturbance in my head,
the way I can’t live with you or without.
I run out of usefulness. Grow fat
with anxiety. On a fine morning
I rejoice in your mystery. At night
I listen to your silence and despair.
Dread whatever end’s in store.
Attend, Lord, those in valid agony.
I’m just one of the whingers –
though perhaps, as an aside,
you could help me to age as beech leaves do,
transparent enough to let sunshine through.
Written in response to Psalm 102