There are times, especially when things are far from clear, when the carefully clipped words of prose simply don’t fit.
They try to cast a line that isn’t there or feels entirely out of place – alien certitude in a sea of emotion.
This is when poetry is the only voice – at least for me.
Words. Words are like
a warm mug of coffee
(or tea if you insist)
into which I’ve stirred
of flower-hopping bees
and the rich milk
of grass-happy cows.
I hold it firmly in my hands,
its scent a prayer
for the sacred early hours.
Sip on the words,Gideon Heugh from Devastating Beauty, 2018
let their heat slowly fill you,
let their light uncover buried things,
let their texture smooth out
the roughness of worry.
I hope poetry might offer a balm for you too – if you need it.