Tonight there are
dark clouds,
the colour of the sea,
moving west
I taste the iron
in the air,
warm as the space
between a sculptor’s hands
and the stone.
A thin white
edge of wind
scythes through
oak trees,
dispenses soft
night rain.
In the moments
when we recognise
ourselves,
I pray for oblivion.
For once it seems
as though
God is answering.
