I Used to Sing
I used to sing with my own people.
Morning. The sun pricked the shadows and they burst;
The hills, steady in their praise, offered the challenge of a climb,
The valleys shrugged away mist, leaving dandelions
Gold buttons sewn into the lawn, and
The dew, sparkling like jewels.
I watch a tiny fly climb up my wall,
A microscopic feat of engineering.
Outside, Queen Anne’s Lace grows abundantly,
Prolifically,
Such miniscule petals, so neatly arranged
As if by a hand much smaller and more careful than mine.
In Borneo I saw orang-utans with hair like autumn bracken,
Coasting among trees, long arms stretching from branch to branch,
Their children on their backs, safeguarded, protected,
Loved.
In India I watched a dragonfly startle the world with mosaic wings,
A paddy bird pick its way delicately along a fence,
A kingfisher, enamelled, bold, overwhelmed with colour.
God speaks to us in many ways.
He hears the chants, the call to prayer, the hymns, the bells,
He sees the candles, from Diwali to Hanukkah,
The Tibetan prayer wheels turning.
All over the world, people and places find God.
It is the only thing I am really sure of.
I used to sing with my own people.
Now I know there is singing all over the world,
To God,
All the time.
© Veronica Bright
Copyright remains with the writers in each case. Please contact Lynne Ling for further details.
