ChrisFewings

Turning

And a Voice beat more instant than the Feet – Francis Thompson

In the bedrock of creation where he breathes
(his sleep and slumber, wakefulness, sustain
the turning worlds) he hollowed out a chapel,
just a cave, a single candle burning
at the back, and settled down to pray
for me, whom he had formed from clay, for me
whose borrowed breath is his. He settled down
to wait; he’d done all else – the voice, the beat
of instant feet, the chase, the dance, the clowning
on the water, and the charm of breath
in flute; the stories and the jokes. Without
expecting or rejecting me he sat
and waited. Either I would turn, and kneel
to wash their feet, or I’d turn away.