Here’s a poem by Blair Barkley.  He read it at Celebration Sunday a few weeks ago.

It Whistles Through:

It whistles through the willows of a borough,

and floats on the water of a pond,

and roars down the falls of a river,

inverted in a glassy refection of a sea,

foaming on the shores of a beach,

and crackling in the clouds of a storm,

the likes of which we haven’t seen before.

 

It soars on the strings of a past,

and flutters through memories too far to grasp,

catching a tide of a sorrow retreating,

and flutters the feathers of a bird fleeting,

falling from a kingdom of a king,

to mere mortals made of a clay,

crafted by the Father, in a race made of colourful hues.

 

It speaks through the voice of a mute,

and brings justice from the heart of a widow,

and wells up strength in the quiet and meek,

bubbling up the blood in the veins of a martyr,

crashing on the rocks of a stoney shore,

illuminating the ocean with a crystal lining,

stretching over a never-ending horizon,

resides a sacred space,

idling in the hearts of everyone