The shimmering, shimmying
silver snakes
have long swivelled off
the window.
As the deluge passes,
I stand in the garden
in this holy moment,
ministering,
exhaling hopes, plans and ideas.
swinging the fore finger censer
of cigarette,
twigs of smoke twisting together
blue, into the greater sky.
On this morning,
in this dripping Eden,
the receding tide of wine
retreats, leaving me grounded,
clear headed.
All around, green beads of buds
exude life and promise a new season
on the brown bones of branches.
The soil is friable,
ready to admit the spade
to plant new hopes,
and compost,
destroyed dreams.
Even with this cold Covid wind sweeping the soul,
I remember each spring starts
from seemingly dead dirt.
Creative destruction is the midwife
of new triumphs.
We will: rebuild,
while sadly mourning past lives;
re-balance priorities;
re-rig our lives;
but we will move on.
Yet I can only reflect on
this scintilla of hope,
the splendour,
of its crystal vision,
too marvellous for wordy elaboration.
And this old heart, soars skyward like that
rainbow:
pristine hopes and old fears,
joy and darkness,
form another stained glass window
in the blue chapel of the sky.
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