Photo credit: Joshua Sortino Her hands are tearing at her hair; she sobs. Clean cloths discarded, dropped amongst the dust, destroyed, along with priceless spices lost.   Two days since Friday’s foul and unjust death, an emptied grave steals closure for her grief, indignance adds to his degrading end.   And now a stranger's asking why she weeps.   How can I bear the silence and the shame? Me - and my sisters – welcomed in his world. Shall we be seen as lowly once again?   One

After The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry First published in Turning Ten and other Stories of Life * , November 2025 In this wilding world as pompous weeds choke the hope of merciful folk, in which fear takes root over the carcases of buried books, fertilised with othering, I wake. Usually I lie, uneasy, and prepare my excuses for a despair-affected day… but from a poem crafted in tribute to Grace, I remember there is another way. I flip the bedsheets from my overheatin

A new psalm inspired by Psalm 38