Air laden with particles was the air that we breathed;
in that land of plenty.
Rich with the residue of travel, adventure, desire;
honeyed life goals, ambitions and freedoms.
Air laden with story…
within the particles we breathed;
That tasted of a time before and felt bitter now.
Air which in the beginning brought life, with your breath;
had become heavy with fear, irritation even death.
We long to tell the story we told yesterday, when the air felt fresh;
the story confident, the taste sweet, but now...
What to leave, what to take. The precious, the valuable;
things, named, owned, possessed, grasped tight, born of a fear to let go.
What story of faith can we hold on to in these heavier times;
that will last, this length of days.
How can we understand the past which we spoke;
now that God’s left behind on doorposts and rainbows.
God goes before in pillar of fire and pots and pans clashing;
God in the ether ... no longer held tight, in the stone, wood and slate.
or book, bread and wine.
The air laden with the pathogen of questions, asking us:
tell the story, speak it, live it, right now.
A search for fresh ways to voice the loss and the constant;
the hurt and the questions, with which every breath is filled.