By Trevor Lipscombe - Washington, DC, USA - 1 June 2013


The river, ankle deep, refuses to run
Slowing to silence in the stifling heat
As quiet as the chapel at the marsh's edge --
The one I remember from childhood --
Where lapwings nested
But no-one came to pray.


In this midsummer stillness
Creation waits calmly
Not for me, who stumbled on this spot by chance,
But for Him
Whose name the rocks and rivers of all the world
Will shout with joy
As time ends.