The Sanctuary


Of knotted wood and lofted green
entered a boy of faith,
a prophet in embryo.
Therein was granted an
herald of peace
to echo through time’s
final corridor.
On the back of
a wooden chair
rest my forearms
and clasped hands.
My grove lies in
a quiet room with
worn carpet.
Wherein I, too,
am grateful for
the power of prayer.