Pamela Leach, Tasmania Regional Meeting
Grace may be that autumn palette
crisp rusts and burgundies oranges
flame and gold riotous dancing for the
azure heavens arms waving in unison
one organic troupe but not just that . . .
Grace may be that sparkling chat we had
the week you died gently very gently
that left me craving more of all those
warming miracles you performed
I cradle them still but not just that . . .
Grace may be the new life inside my head
chemical soup charred electrical storms
that spin gyrate my tarrying days like
gymnasts with their spiral ribbons each
a vortex of joy but not just that . . .
Grace may be the gift of the precious
stranger needing a bed ebony hair chocolate eyes
come to visit grandparents who like
daisies where they lie in Cornelian Bay
steady reliably but not just that . . .
Grace may be her passion for Richmond
not to gaze at the towering arches stone marvels
built by clever convicts but to greet her childhood
ducks don’t ask if she has an appointment
it’s serendipity but not just that . . .
Grace may be the gift of being a little
closer to the man who built his family a home
having left his legs one arm in Afghanistan
the ninety-some woman who’s now an athlete
I feel her heartbeat but not just that . . .
Grace is growing closer to brothers
the one I have joyful funny so full of wisdom
never mind the half a brain lost in the accident
that tumbled our lives recalling missing the other
brother who left us his pain but not just that . . .
Grace is accepting when the bright light blasts
its happy disorder into this blissful hour
then accepting the blind is drawn and that’s
the end of this little wonder nugget having
faith there will be more but not just that . . .
Grace is dropping a single small broken self
into the flood of too much the swell of power
strength the consuming fighting world and
finding stillness a mindful centre in which to float
and knowing the simple wonderful oneness of it all.