Of a morning
The ancient breeze would unfurl,
Gentle on the old man.
Together they would go
To the place of promise.

And promise had been made,
Nested in his heart,
And promise had lain there,
Content for the future.
Only occasionally, as the years blew by,
Gusted by anxiety, he would wonder:
'Will he be, will he be?'

On this day,
The breeze, fresh and damp,
A herald of summer rain,
Nipped his heels and scurried him on
To the customary place,
His legs aching by strange compulsion
His eye seeking some horizon…

A man, a pair of pigeons, a woman,
And a baby.

Promise soared,
A branch of olive in his lips:
'At last, here is
Word of my word,
Breath of my breath,
Life of my life.'

And breeze and breath whispered back:
'This is he, this is he.'

Poem reprinted with permission Lion Publishing plc, Oxford, England.

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