wordsout by godfrey rust
The sailing of the ark  < 43 of 45


A friend gave me this picture,
that like Ezekiel's river from the temple

the clear torrent of the Spirit pours down
the stony channels of our enterprise

and all our arguments amount
to a few old rusty implements, blunt shears and rakes

stuck in the river bed, and of no more use
than knives to slice waves from a waterfall. Here

in the sunny silence of a winter afternoon
outside this upper room the trees stretch out

as if in supplication. These words are scattered
in the valley of dry bones, waiting

for the rustling of the wind of God, waiting
for the coming spring, the breath of Pentecost.

Ezekiel’s river cf the prophet’s vision in Ezekiel 47:1-12.

valley of dry bones cf Ezekiel 37:1-14.