I love reading about the planting of the sycamore gap saplings. A picture from one planted locally caught my eye as there seemed such a holy reverence in the images. It inspired this which I thought might be apt to post in the randomness of the space between Christmas and new year.

They felled the tree,
and for a moment the gap grew wider
a space by an ancient wall,
an ache in the air.
Yet even in absence,
something holy lingered.
The earth itself began to hum
with all the waiting things.

Now across the land people kneel in winter rain,
hands muddy with faith,
pressing small roots into cold earth.
Each sapling a testament
that what is lost is not forgotten,
that gaps can cradle more than grief.

God is not afraid of empty spaces.
The womb,
the manger,
the gap between promise and fulfilment,
all tremble with the same possibility.
So we wait, we dig
and plant, with hope
breathing reverence into the soil,
trusting light will find a way again.
So places one laid bare with winters frosty hue,
Will teem with laughter, swings and shade for summer’s glow.