Bethel It took months to get there, the journey causing my feet to crack like dropped pottery, the sun warping my skin like an old wineskin. I made myself a bed in the dust, used a weathered stone as my pillow, stared at the sky and watched the brilliant blue gradually burn into darkness. Clouds arrived en masse, leaving the sky devoid of its array of stars. I closed my eyes: For a braided string of lights to fall from heaven like a lifeline I waited For the angelic choir of shuffling feet and straining muscles I waited For burning coals to be buried into my eyes and my ears I waited But no word arrived – only the sharp slice of stone revealed itself to me
Matthew J. Andrews
60
