Prophesy

Confluence bleeds
blue electric flame
till soul and spirit
breathe the same

from harvest cutting
Sharons long stemmed rose

to midnight shining
Southern Cross

street lamps line the path
His kingdom came.

Weeds whisper
as they toss
intimations
to the wind

and rattle
dry seed pods
as if promises
from pagan gods.

I heard them rustling sigh

"Our weakest are the first
to die
first to rise again"

in floral descant to what
the dusty weed-straw
chorus said:

"Valley-lily somewhere by
is Balm in Gilead

there is a Balm
in Gilead."