Grandfather God, who trails beards of moss over the rocks and the trees, and decks the bushes in autumn with hairy seed cases – You are not an authority figure but a playmate.
We come to your house on holy days to play hide-and-seek, sing lustily, and have tea and cakes. Your wisdom is of the humble variety: quietly spoken, close to the earth.
You love to gaze at the stars and give bread to the ducks.
You don’t tell me off, you just hold me close and tell me jokes about life.
Tell us another story, Grandpa. Tell us how we are loved.
Let me bring you something. A cup of tea? A biscuit?
No. Only my heart will do, as I sit cradled in your arms by the hearth of dreams.
A heart bruised by experience, brimming with joy, suffused with love.
Well, then. Cheerio, Grandpa. See you soon.
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