Solitary crow
on grey, slate roof.
Small speck within creation
loved by Him
beyond your means
beyond rank, or status or station.

Effortlessly you glide through life
under His watchful eye
safe in the knowledge that
creation returns to Him
when at last you die.

You do not know it
and yet you feel.
When I do not feel
but to me, it is known
you speak the divine language
of being made His very own.

(Written: 18.X.16)
On retreat in Belgium


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