Woodland Shrine

I know a large lily pond nearby,
in an over-grown garden estate,
a small opening in the rainforest.

A secret place,
with reeds congregated
here and there along its mossy marge,
ducks on its placid surface,
golden fish rising from dark depths,
an arbour-like structure beside
 with vines upon it,
airy, a framwork like a foreign shrine
from another century,
of ancient mossy wood still hard and solid,
assembled without nails or screws
with the  image long missing
on a central seat looking out over
the blossoming lilies.

 Three times I have sat
(trembling,
 perceive me charitably)
in the place
and tuned into a sense
of  lost lordship
under the Lord of all,
sought another perspective
on what may have been hidden,
lost or displaced,
what could be reclaimed.

From there I could pray
for the whole world.