Sunday Morning without a pulpit in sight

Cobwebs drift between tall grass clumps, spinning me a lighter than cashmere jumper as I run through strands

Tall Box trees glinting green and gold, endowed with a thousand lucky pennies, mine drops at my feet and I scoop it up

Tuck it in my pocket and run on even faster

Soft earth absorbing the sound of my vibram soles

I imagine it thick, thousands of feet deep

And all the footsteps that have gone before me

Layering in fine drifts of soil all the way to this thin veneer where I tap away at the land with my footprints

And I am not alone this morning, nor am I the earliest

Delicate birds three toe triangles

The fast moving hare, leaving lucky dirt shoe shamrocks to beguile the fox, who trots

weaving stealthily through straw coloured grass

I see her out of the corner of my eye and quirk happily inside

I love all that is wild

High above the kite hawks wheel

And all of this feels

Like when I’m gone

It will live on


I just enjoy it for this brief moment as I pass by lightly

Invisible to other humans of which there are none

Out here

Only as important as maybe one of the group of ants that dutifully tug at a dead grass hoppers weight

I don’t see if they make it

I’ve moved on

My breath a song that sighs through my heart

Listening to the start of a butcher birds hymn

The bush is my church

God so real

I can feel his glory in the warmth of the morning sun sinking through my skin

A benediction to any who feel deeply with their whole being

This tangible connection to both present and past and every living thing

Of which we play only a small part

But we should feel grateful and play it with our whole heart

For in doing so

There lies magic

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