|
The Chapel in the Hills
Difficulties crowd with problems, crow like on my shoulder.
Dreams broken, hopes crushed, broken eggshells in my mind.
Despair’s tentacles twitch and creep, optimism and joy dwindle and moulder.
Laughter and happiness have fled, no inner peace can I find.
Post crashes through my letterbox, tumbling and falling underneath.
Hearing aids and catalogues jostle, bills fight with junk mail
Piled up, one upon another. Then I see the envelope beneath.
A cheering message from the chapel in the hills.
Photo in hand I am transported back to the place I love.
Trainers squelch through the rocky path, muddy and steep.
Cold breath hangs in the moorland air, buzzards wheeling high above.
Past graveyard with snowdrops bobbing, where the imminent daffodils peep.
The river, the otters haunt, through the valley flows.
Pure holy waters from the spring above, trickles past church and altar.
Hallowed and peaceful, stone stillness in the moorland sunlight glows
Healing peace and joy, the wellspring of hope, never does it falter.
Janette Wallace
|
