Beyond the silence of the lamb
and the still of the dove
there is a forever wind
as the breathing of creation
and the hum of its Maker
I am in the Meadow
over the hill,
just beyond your sight
I am spread below the indian paintbrush
underneath your earthly view
I am moving even deeper still
into the thighs of the land
diluting into browns and greens
Can you see me?
Do you care to see me,
down here where the view is caressed
where the visions have flavours
and a promise has flesh and blood?
Come to the meadow
just over the hill
