Wafting

For The Sunday Muse Prompt #95.

***
It thunders,
and then it wafts,
its wispy tendrils
slowly rising like
the white smoke
of incense from a censer,
held aloft by a priest
intoning a muttered
prayer. Behind,
a bridge to the past
hides, disappearing,
as it were, into
the haze of memory;
ahead, the future –
not yet glimpsed
but in the moment
frozen – and enjoyed.

Gift

For The Sunday Muse Prompt 93:

***
Here, prone
beneath the weight
of things unseen,
the vision has begun
to fade, the dream
once resplendent
in its colour,
now faint and grey,
Between the leaving
and the grieving
a messenger appears,
a key in its wings,
a gift of redemption
and rebirth.

Oasis

For The Sunday Muse Prompt #92 and Matthew 11:28-30.

***
Beyond the drying
and the dying
salvation calls;
the distant shimmer
of light cast
by the morning sun
a whisper to the weary;
Come, draw nigh
all ye who are heavy laden,
who bear the burden
of a common life
around their neck.
Hope and Haven
is the promise,
if we dare
go through the door
into the way.

Abandonment

For The Sunday Muse Prompt #84. Image Source.
***
Behind the grime,
and the ravages
of time the remains
of living now lie,
each layer of dirt
a sigh, a dirge
for the mystery
of abandonment,
for how easy
it is for things
once woven into
the fabric of the
present to slip
beneath the shroud
of the memories
we lose. Maybe this
is what leaving is,
things returning
to the way they
always were.

Gift

 

sea shell for post

Gift, for The Sunday Muse prompt #68. Photography by Edouard Boubat.

***
Against the pressure of the sea
and the darkness of the depths,
the gift has been formed, layer by layer
each crystal a prayer offered up
for protection from the predation
of the boring sponge, the oyster worm
and the scurrying crab.

Each day that water has washed over it –
wearing tiny paths across its stubborn skin –
a battle has been won; of survival,
and quiet reassurance. And when someday,
bequeathed by the sea, it lies
in the hands of a grateful child,
its hardy brilliance will yet still speak,
more loudly in its silence than all the things
it has survived.