The mist-cry of the thrush and starling
Was an invitation to persist.
The green bush rustled,
Beginning to flame in the autumn air.
Prayer sank and rose in whispers
In the oaken hush of the church.
In the morning I sought my God.
In the evening I found my God.The green bush crackled
With invisible flame in the smoky twilight.
The purity of a surplice moved through the church.
Prayer and the heart debated,
But the sufficiency of hands
Was about me.
In the evening I found my God.
====================© October 1979