Tuesday, November 20, 2012

November 20, 2012

The skies possess a strange and quieted lowliness to them. Ominous rows of cumulus clouds—foretellers of what’s to come, glide swiftly through this immense ocean of nothingness; fast moving, shifting and vanishing themselves into oblivion, as do the creatures and forms and mythical gods they hold in their bosoms.

And it seems so close to the earth—the sky. From my second floor office window, I look up at this cloud-cluttered sky bath in ritual shadows, and I am at the bottom of some strange sea. I’m sitting in barren sea floors, looking up at the upheaval of foamy waters miles above my head. A dove soars by and it is a seagull in the chill November wind. I can see its shadow slowly gliding the waters above. I am trapped. I cannot swim myself to salvation.

Then, as clouds part, I see it—leaning against the ominous sky: The Cross on the Old Church Tower.

No comments:

Post a Comment