THE HOLY CHURCH OF NATURE

 

I sit in the holy church of nature,

Listening to the incantations of

A choir of Sycamore leaves rustling

In pitch perfect harmony;

Fading to whispers as the sermon begins.

The Sunlit ceiling of mosaic cloud

Sprinkles light rain of holy water,

Baptising my boots in the

Living stream of consciousness

That trickles through the aisles of 

Wild grasses waving in adoration.

I lay myself down on the

Altar of earth as Bluebells

Break cover in celebration of

New beginnings; the Chestnut tree

Reflecting Birch bark silver

In its candles.

Woods echo with shotgun sound,

And the winged congregation takes flight.