Tiny in twilight she walks
A smell of roses too, but early.
Past congregation and elders, floating,
Diminutive, insistent and demure.
Just listen… (Afraid we might see her,
Instead of the voice.)
Swallows, swooping over the steeple.
Stand, if you can!
We leave the building after the mystic thunder,
We pray and cast about
Trying to understand.
She departs and
The light fails, somehow.
Rose petals drifting to the floor,
While new rain falls on the empty church.
She treads the cloud’s mystery
Her wings spread on the wind, departing...
The last movement of this brief symphony:
A discordant adagio, weeping in a minor key.
© David Spurgeon. April 1997. (Dedicated to “Elizabeth”, for obvious reasons!)
Link to Julian May and April, who is Elizabeth!
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