Sinful Sunday





You are all edges, not pointed or jagged but rounded yet solid like the seamed walls of my bath.

I can sit or stand or lie within those edges. They contain me, hugged round like a blanket, a safe harbour to moor against as solid and as smooth as a leather gloved hand.

During my day, and for my people I can be all edges too. They moor against my smooth walls. They look to me for support. It is endless and satisfying. It is also too too much.

Take my hand and take me down to the dark place where my walls are not solid.

Wreck my brick built defences with your hand.

Invade me.

Show no mercy.

Do not stop when I beg you. Stop when you have had your fill.

Make me float within a your sea. Rocked by waves and pummeled by surf. Ground against the sea bed and set upwards to the sunlit surface again and again.


Give me your edges to lean against,

Reinstate my footings, ground me and raise me up again.

eye February 2016

I'd love to hear what you think!

%d bloggers like this: