BETHEL

 

 

BETHEL

I remember my own bethel

A thing impossible, you might say

You think of yourself too highly

But I do. Insignificant as I am

And not a bit prophetic.

The angels coming and going

The rock under my head suddenly softened

As if it had turned to snow

The sudden traffic of angels

In late September

There I remember

Through the leaves illuminated

The ghost of God seemed to speak to me

Filtering words

Like the honey of Time

And consolation

For what had not yet occurred.

mary angela douglas 20 january 2024