His Healing Hand.

His Hands today,

methinks is relaxing away…

He cuts a wide swathe of white across the sky

And I wondered why…

For a sense of purpose?

His act of nature?

His azure white masterpiece

A smorgasboard of churning white.

Spiky long troughs, a youngster’s Mohawk,

Soft white tuffs to an aging head,

He crafts them all.

Cotton wool cool,

A half moon ducks through shifting white.

A smidgeon of arc-ed black and another fleeting swoosh

A swallow joins his mate.

Life up there 

Compared to  life down here…

A sense of humour for sure.

His Bored Hand.

His Healing Hand.

My soul commands…

To rest and an easier breath.

Our Creator for sure.


6 thoughts on “His Healing Hand.

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