A manicured perfection seals the early tone:
the yew tree hedges smooth enough to stroke;
and mullioned windows set in honeyed stone;
the mossy tiles and doors to quiet folk.
My breathing slows and sounds intensify:
of rasping rooks and fatly pollened bees,
of clicking metalled hooves that pass nearby,
and musty pews that creak with practised ease.
And in this space the Spirit breathes anew,
ignoring bland attempts at harmony,
instead gives focus to a sharper view,
of pain encountered – dark Gethsemane.
We long for light in cloudless morning air
and seek it most in humble, questing prayer.
