Grace is the rain which gently falls on good and bad. Grace is the hands washing the feet of stubborn pride. Grace is the blade busy at work pruning the vines. Grace is the wrath which upturns greed in holy shrines. Grace is the blood of a torn God soaking the soil.
Grace is the cup which overflows with joy to all.
The evening gannets bak and rise with grace supreme. The waves turn over sand and shells as in a dream. From mangroves near an estuary a curlew cries. Regrets and fears from long past years within me rise. A mild wind moves my greying hair like something blest.