Lapping waves have their own sagas.
Deep in their memories drift tales of
mer creatures, and Behemoth, and Jonah, and
water learning to listen to the One whose
voice stilled the sea, stills me – more water
than not, sitting on the rocks ringing this harbour.
This is not my Island, but still it
claims something of me: my
eyes behold its beauty with wonder, my
ears hear ancestors sing the wind, my
nose knows that sulfur has its own
history, a mystery in its own right, and
my skins feels the rough and cool of
basalt rock with two tongues.
I step mindfully in this place, because
I know that You, Holy One, have inhabited
this land of ice and fire
far longer than our remembering
far stronger than our forgetting.
I step carefully in this place, because You are
under every stone,
around every corner
within every sound
and I pine for Your appearing.
stillvoicing 