broken completely (yet whole)

There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,


in so many ways
are broken

a glance
at the newspapers
brings a shudder
and confirmation

royal sex scandals

sporting lies
and tantrums

the ill health
of a nation . . .

of the world

the perversity
of governments

of the helpless

so many ways
to be broken

but outside
it is morning

the early sun streams –
golden –
across the backyard lawn

cockatoos –
my harvest nemesis –
are gathered as a flock
at the foot
of the plum tree

picking over old spoils
to find undamaged
in the grass

the air
is full of light

and flight

and buzz

not everything –
it seems –
is suffering

and neither
am I

my society . . .

my country . . .

the outside world
may indeed
be broken
and corrupted
in fundamental ways
and my home

my simple backyard
and the pleasures
that it brings me

are whole


20 thoughts on “broken completely (yet whole)

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