Lecht

The road over this blasted heath
Across this windswept hill
at the edge of the east,
Has been a place of peace
A kind of pilgrimage for me.


Once in crisp autumnal airs,
Once in bitter cold,
Car tracks through
A dust of freshly settled snow
White across the tarmac.


Today: a rain-filled murky dusk.
Water sluicing over the road
Wind buffeting the roof of the car
The wiper’s wup-wup only adds
To the deepest sense of peace.

Here one talks with the Most High
Like he was sat in the passenger seat
Listening to what I say,
Nodding sagely, making mental note,
To fix this situation, bless that person.
I am, He says, the God who hears.

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