Like sea-mist condensing from nowhere
The quiet deepens through the week
As the streets empty. When the blackbird speaks
He wakes an echo in the April evening
That falls as fountains from the air
Back into stillness. So we enter
The great silence, as an otter cleaving
Still water cleanly, and we wait. The centre
Of all things, the Christ mystery, we prepare
Our spacious silence for receiving.
Together we enter his eclipse; a bleak
And seeping sadness chills us into prayer
Like those who loiter in a graveyard early, grieving
Before sunrise. Here we wait, this week.
tRuth 2019
poem prayer silence 