 Cliff-sculpted
I scramble over sculpted stone, seaweed and barnacle, watching the wingbeats rolling over the shore - a star-plumed heron, leading the way to God. I feel you carving me into rock - deep and soft through the palm of your hand... tracing the textures of my face. I feel you, out beyond the tide - giving me space to call you home. I hold your restlessness in cloud - a single beam of sacred light, scooping the terror from my heart. I feel you in pebbles, and rock pools, the gliding of seagulls, and a cliff, crinkled with the names sculpted in your palm... crinkled with the paths hidden in my heart. You have known them, flown them, washed them with your waves. So how do I climb your love from here? How does this high love cast out fear? By being hung out to dry? By being slapped over hard stone and thorns? By being stabbed through the heart and left out to die? By whispering? By kneeling? By soaking the sting of grit and pebbles out of weary feet? By shining in rust-painted, cliff-woven chains? By weaving your light into incoming tides? By luring my restlessness back out to sea? Or simply by sculpting your heart out of pebbles… and me. - John Hulme
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