Cumulus is stacked
high in accumulated layers
of grey. Here and there
a line of pink light
betrays the sun we
cannot see. But over
the curved loch a
skein of blue opens
its torn wings on heaven,
a window to what is
always there.
We must
hold to that hidden
lightness when the dark
closes on the mind
like the grip of winter
on the tired embers
of our chilly faith.
©C.M.M. 01/07
