When the world is dark and
the sun pushes up half-heartedly;
the sinews of the dark and cold and fear come muscling in around the latches and the sashes,
the keyholes and the doorjams, and in the bodies of masked strangers knocking past.
Everything is unpredictable; the breathing wind changing directions daily.
Which way should we face? Within or without?
What are the answers to the never-ending nag of questions?
The usual laughing, lilting lute has gone daft and shrilling.
And then, is when,
I go crawling to the arms of my very patient husband;
as I crawl into the arms of my ever-loving Abba,
and we rock the storms away.