The title poem from Steady, Pilgrim

Steady, pilgrim,
walk with grace.
The saint was wrong,
there is no race.
You make a road
for those behind
who know not
that your work is blind.

Each year a mile
from wilderness,
the path made straight,
the toil made less.

Each day a slab 
to smooth the track
for foot, for hoof,
for weary back.

Each hour a tree
to shade the head,
give fruit to quench,
make wine, be fed.

Each thought a sky,
unbounded space.
So, steady, pilgrim,
walk with grace
remembering
your unborn face.

Sermon on the wall mounting, by Matt Harvey

A few inches above the skirting-board
it sits. A socket. Ready for a plug
to be inserted. Which will have a cord
that stretches to the heater on the rug.
Look. Three accommodating oblong holes.
The top one longer than the other two.
One in. One out. One earth. Their humble goal's
to let the electricity come through.
Three holes. A small domestic Trinity.
Three aspects of the power that is the Source.
Which may be likened to Divinity.
Which in those Star Wars films was called The Force.

In this material world how very odd
to find a socket leads us back to God. 

From The Hole in the Sum of My Parts, ISBN 0-9550910-0-4