18 November 2009

Holy Water

no need to lift the slats
no sunlight filtered through the cracks
he knows, he feels it in his bones

he’d prayed, ancient words chanted
a liturgy the same beat as the silver strings
now bouncing rhythmically on arid ground

the sky a dappled grey, mottled white
the mist of his breath against the pane
clouds his view of precious beads of life

falling on orchards, vines and olive trees -
doors opened wide, he inhales rain kissed air
eyes raised in thanks for answered prayers


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