When I listen to you live my throat feels dry.
My lips crack and dry up,
Thirsty for water that breathes deeply
Into my longing.
Lifting the cup to my mouth I hesitate,
Pursed lips tentatively gasping,
Drawing you in like hot tea that might blister my tongue
Rendering all else tasteless.
But I’d rather drink you down
– no fear of getting burnt –
Drink you down to the depths
Of sweet Spirit, and of Truth
And of grace.
“You’ll be back” he said, as they walked around the Cathedral.
Old church buildings always made her want to sing, to raise the smallest note and listen as it grew wings and soared up to the rafters. She could never quite get up the guts to do it.
“Can you imagine this place filled with a whole bunch of people singing worship to God? How amazing would that be?!” Constant chatter an outpouring of a hyper-active sense of imagination and well-placed zeal. He was a dreamer, a visionary, an artist…
And he had been right. She was back.
This time, though, as she walked towards the front he stayed behind, filling another’s memory, dreaming other dreams – he had undoubtably forgotten those words, possibly completely oblivious to their accuracy. Yet here she was again with unbidden tears pouring significance into the echoes of before.
“You’ll be back,” he said.
And she was.