Church Of Storms

Tucked in the hillside
Nestling between two coves
You beckoned me,
With a shy invitation
To enter.

I turned the circular hand,
Of your weathered door.
Rusty hinges creaked,
As you welcomed me in.

Your stillness greeted me
Like a great pause.
A full stop between two worlds.
The wild, changing seascapes
And the silent graveyard
Of those sleeping at your feet.

I wandered around slowly,
Touching the wooden pews
With the line of my finger.
Smelling the musty scent
Of age and mild, damp neglect.
I stood in an invisible circle
Of your immense silence.
Infused only – by the distant rhythm
Of waves crossing onto shores
And the haunting whispering
Of wind around your walls.

I entered the aisle,
And turned to face the window.
You poured a kind, white
Protective light over me.
I wondered at such gentleness.
I was transfixed in your gaze.
Was it you that saw me,
Or I that observed you?
I knew we had seen each other.

I moved through the doorway
Across your worn threshold.
Grateful for your welcome
And your hidden presence.