Pause at the small lake 
    like a goldeneye indulging chicks.
Born to songs the air conducts through branches.
Beside those perfect ripples  
    beloved of impressionist painters.

Look: amid those reflections of clouds
    wends a walkway over the water.
This pathway is a life-long journey.
And taking in- bathing in- the lake,
    a form of prayer.

Sunlit cyclists coast the far bank
unaware of you unaware 
of the kingfisher behind you unaware 
of an enthroned artist's wild sketch.
    Hopeful of an enduring image.

Saying I wouldn't change a thing-
    tomkins straight from the vine;
    your radiant child-like face;
is a form of prayer.