Forgive me, Father, that I do not
close my eyes in prayer.
For I would mark every ancient stone of this place,
every pain of glass.
Remember how each pair of hands is set in prayer,
the timbre of each voice, as they soar and drop
through the ancient psalms.
The walk of every pair of sandalled feet.
Mark it and memorise it.
The ancient stone, softened pink
by silken tartan sunshine,
so that when I have left the peace of this place,
I may take each piece, this whole, this flesh,
out into your world and have it echo there.


M. Wyllie ©2009