Sacred Sunday.

A tribute from Alison to her father Elgin, who gifted her the love of words.

Sunday. Sacred. Silence. Surrendered

The grass is lit sporadically as the breeze lifts and ebbs its delicate dry fronds
The winter sun warms my naked skin
Wild hares dart out of the tall waving yellow grasses to lurch
Staccato hops
Across the dry frost-stained lawn,
The stubble of Winter’s face…

An orangepinkamber Sunset
As the sun burns its last rays and disappears into a cloak of chilly darkness
Dipping beneath the horizon
Leaving the swirling smoke of the distant townships
To eddy and disappear into the descending darkness

The Haunting cries of jackals pierce the Silence

An owl hoots quietly from the nearby forest
Shrouded in Secrecy
Camaflouged in the Dappled Darkness

Evening Sacred Rituals

Flickering candles
The orange ember of glowing logs
The Haunting lyrics of tangled love songs and the slow staccato strains of acoustic guitars

Morning Conversations with God

Padding around a long slow winding 12 km loop of dusty farm roads
Between the dismissive gazes of grazing blesbuck
A lonely ostrich picking in the rocky outcrops
Silent almost abandoned houses
A ghostly Hamlet hugging the shoreline

I run
A moving meditation, unmasked, solitary

A Silent Sacred Sunday after days of Deep Coaching Conversations
Touching lives
Healing patterns
Finding wholeness
Knowing why I live in Africa

Escaping momentarily the masked, pained, hungry faces at the traffic lights
The Desperate urban cacophony of Despair

I live in Grace

I steel myself to return to the City of Gold where dreams were made and illusions shattered
Where hope still lingers as we scurry around in our busy lives
Trying to make sense of this new world…

19 July
A tribute to my father Elgin
Who gifted me the love of words

Alison Weihe

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