I’m not an overly religious person, but I do believe in a power of some sort. Otherwise how would we and this fantastic globe that we spin through space on, exist?

As a child I schooled at Church of England schools and so regular visits to churches were the norm. One overriding memory is of my five – year old self standing at the entrance to our local church, one Sunday morning. The beauty, as I perceived it, rose up as high as I could see. Inside the church amazing colours shone through the stained glass windows and music, that sang to my young soul, infiltrated every stone of that vast building.

I find that during the course of a mad day, grabbing myself a bit of peace in what I like to think of as nature’s house of worship, helps me to ground myself.

Being outside, whether in a woodland, forest, amongst mountains, hills, or roaming fields and beaches feels like a spiritual place to me. It can be likened to entering a house of worship. I’m not going to say church specifically, because we all have our own beliefs.

In my eyes they are all equal: and so are we.

 

 

Beneath, is a poem that I wrote on here, some time ago. I say poem. I’m not sure if it does qualify as a poem. I just wrote it as I felt at the time. To my rhythm and with no rhyme. It seemed to work when it was first published and some folk took the time and trouble to stop by and pass comment.

So, as more of my buried posts are brought to the surface, in the great blog clean – up, I unearth this one again. And a version of it appears on My Trending Stories, to which I am presently contributing.

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The poem describes a walk that I take, with my retired greyhound – the Daisy dog.

Prior to her, I walked the favourite walk with my original greyhound, Misty. Some of you may be aware that she passed over a year ago.

In my times of grief, at her passing, the walk, the trees and the overflowing nature brought me comfort and peace.

 

Finding my peace.

 

Beneath a canopy of leaves

I seek

and find my gods and goddesses, 

residing in nature’s cathedral.

The ancient, and twisted tree trunks

rise to the heavens

and give support to a roof of thousands of leaves.

A dazzle of colour and light.

As the sun catches the leaf edges

they become like stained glass windows.

The birds above

are an angelic choir.

The soft, grassy carpet beneath me

is ancient and blessed.

Truly, holy ground.

Many have walked this way before me

and will continue to do so:

when I no longer walk the Earth.

In the pews, either side of me

wildflowers quietly worship

I whisper my secrets to the trees

and they keep them safe.

They in turn,

whisper their ancient knowledge to me.

I leave nature’s cathedral/ chapel/ synagogue/ mosque/church.

It has no preference:

any one of us is welcome here;

in nature’s house of worship.

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As always, thanks for reading. I’d love to hear if you think my free-style poem works.

Dorne x