Holding her hand in a grip,

Which will not hurt, caressing, but not easy to shake.

Like the time we have spent here together,

Traveling encased in a dream which has lasted all those years.

We walked together.

 

Here now was the alternative path,

Close to the coastal wall,

Tall, make of Celtic stone and surrounded by a hedge of many years,

Making it full on impassable.

 

Years ago it was narrow, but easily navigated,

The alt path now blocked by the darkness,

Even though it is full on daylight,

On this coastal day in Wales.

 

We are forced back to the main path

Perfectly cleared of any debris, illuminated and almost straight,

Making it clear where we are called to go,

But winding enough to make it interesting,

Filled with parts unseen to increase that Holy Longing

Which is our love for each other,

 

And for Him.

 

The Welsh weather keeps our skin perfect,

Never too much sun, but when it comes, a little wind to douse it’s effect,

So as not too feel too warm,

And then changing to overcast,

As shadows dance over the coast,

Creating sunbeams, and shadows, and images,

Only to be apprehended by an imagination, or a paparazzi camera.

 

Yet yearning for Gainsborough, Constable, or some Hudson River artist to daub it, and capture it forever.

 

There is no contradiction between
mystical love and physical love.
They are one.
And when one you are in divine union
and ecstasy,
it is with the lover of all lovers.
Not just the source,
But love itself

Instincts and physiology may cause attraction
But from where does such a spark ignite?
From a mystical place within
Somewhere inside where a desire to share unlimited
Love is stored and bottled up.
Not for personal gain or control,
Or even immediate gratification
But in two gifts from God.

The first gift is all the magical nature of creation around.
Abundant in our lives … even if at times we have to look beyond our feet to find it.
It’s in the faces of those in our day
Waiting for us to love and treat them
As He would wish.

The other gift is freewill.
The ability to become what was intended
Or to swallow ourselves in self,
Only to find we have redefined love to be singular
A closed cell where I control the door,
Of an empty room.

The Song of Songs is no mistake,
Mystical union and physical can be the same;
A continuum of love in all experienced
The appreciation of beauty
With awe and wonder
Understood because the need to own it is absent.

Love is humility and servant hood and hope
Engulfed in a mystical desire to rest in God
For all our moments.
We cannot compartmentalize love
And then experience it.

We are love
Or not
At a given moment.

For true love is extending this moment
To forever.