Listen to the stillness.
So still, my heart is hesitating
lest the next beat should be sacrilege.
No shroud of loneliness
has lain upon this land.
Death has not visited here.
Only the slow transmutation
from being to stillness,
from stillness to being once again.
The light dwindles. A mist rises.
An invisible hand tugs at my mind.
Going and returning, going and returning, my life is one of going and returning.
But always I return,
when the gossamer voice calls again,
to the bread and the wine,
the stilled heart and the indwelling.
~ By Brian Holley Shared at our April 2024 Poetry Festival Day