Psalm 1

 

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.