I picture you running, with arms wide,
in a field of waving, golden fingers
that tickle at your feet.
The streaming of your hair
is a dab of night
in the otherwise brightness of the day.
And there are no sounds
but the gentle whispers
of wind in the rustling grass;
one bird, calling from the sky;
and the blood of your pounding heart
racing to catch up.
There are no storm-clouds -- no worries of the day --
pressing with their heavy, humid weight:
so many drops waiting to fall!
Into this landscape of peace and calm
may your soul roam
whenever it seeks respite from the day,
Hair flying, wind rushing,
only the bluebells, cupping their ears,
to hear your laughter...
Such places are not just imagination:
If God is the highest form of love,
and even I can want it for you,
it must be there.
