How can there not be a God
when there is water?
The clear liquid that does everything for us;
heals, replenishes, restores, cleans, gives life.
Forty percent of us is not water. The rest is.
The sounds of it dripping, trickling, whispering and crashing.
The feel of it slipping over skin, yielding coldness
as you jump in on a hot day.
A moment of shock and breath taken away.
The smell of it, deep and earthy after it rains,
salty and crisp on a sea breeze.
The taste of it, like the essence of life trickling down my throat.
Swimming, sailing, catch it as it falls.
That there is liquid- drops and drops that come together and move away, that pour and separate and pool.
It fills the sea bed and it fills us.
Wells of oceans.
Puddles, creeks, tarns, lakes and lochs.
Ponds, rivers, bays and seas.
Eternal mirrors that reflect the sky,
So many shades of blue.
All the names we have for blue never capture
that point of the sea at one with the sky.
That is holy.
Known deep in the heart but not by the tongue.
Unformed words stick to the salt on our lips.
The unknown, becoming known.