In alabaster temples
whiter than purest snow,
with dragons standing guard,
watching over, to protect and pray.
In the grandeur of gilded
cathedrals, flung with finest fabrics,
the Virgin Mother, heart-broken,
always crying for the world.
In the humble church down
in the hollow, where Christ
still hangs on a cross, and the
Spirit rises, falls, and slays.
In the forest, morning breaking,
woodland creatures fussing about,
birdsong rising rhythmically,
steadily with the rising sun.
By the seaside, sun is setting
as daylight washes out
with tides, seascape’s loud
exhaling, purple skies and storms.