Psalm Sixteen

Another first draft of a poem . . .

On this grey morning

with the wind soft in my face

I am looking over the valley

from this path by a stream that chatters idly to itself

as it flows gently down under the stone slabs

of the old sheep bridge, sweet cold water splashing between

the new and hopeful greening of early spring.

You are down there somewhere,

I imagine,

doing something timely and important:

chairing a meeting, playing a violin,

hanging out the washing, waiting for a train.

I am for now outside the reach of time,

with nothing important to do,

and nowhere important to go;

but the wind blows soft in my face, and

standing where my eyes can scan the world,

just for this quiet moment

the lines have fallen for me in a goodly place.

For here I can feel it to be true:

that God is set at my right hand,

so that I can be glad, for safe held I shall not fall.

The quiet breeze and the soft grey clouds

seem alive with the Spirit, with the Creator’s presence;

the stream’s splashing motion sings

a constant litany of prayer and praise.

High on this hillside

each unspoken thought is laid open

to the mind of God;  and he hears,

for he is close by, he is close by.

Thou shalt show me the path of life;

in thy presence is the fullness of joy,

and in thy right hand

are pleasures for evermore . . .

. . . with the wind soft in my face.