Poetry

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And lo a voice from heaven, saying, This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased. Matthew 3. v 17�

Field of Doves

Rising up on fragile dappled wing
A thousand doves,
In winter�s field of stone and troubled dawn,
Long since the harvest of the golden corn,
Too far yet, the birth of joyous spring,
A winged cloud above.

Swift to wheel in golden gilt-edged teams
Far-flung their flight,
Against the dark woods shadowed naked limbs,
Grey-tipped and joyous on the morning brings,
A swirling marbled dance in sunlight�s gleam,
Their voices bright.

Distant skies of blue all now rejoice,
For here is One,
Of purest white as snow that flies alone,
That thrills with love the heart once turned to stone,
And somewhere near the Father�s voice,
�Here is my Son.�

Rising up on fragile snow white wing,
A perfect dove,
So swift to come the broken heart to fill.
Captured by His presence on cold winter�s hill,
A light to shine within, a song to sing,
O blessed Love!
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