Divine whispers of life-promise
were once delivered via
bell tower’s call – religiously
apparently – or not at all

This morning seagull’s
soaring is transient white light
aloft – and liberating
borderless and glorious it seems

Today the Voice is heard
soughing in trees and
rattling red roof tiles or
cast off feather’s fall

And blown through rusty
fanlight direct to dreams – or
satellite dish reception
delivering beams

Where are the edges beneath
this blue dome and whence the
soul-knowing recognising
home away from home?

There’s greater wider
gyre around the Tower
and the transient light
immutably knows – that all

is in all

Simon Marsh

see travelpad