The Lord brought me Champagne this morning
in a silver bucket.
He lifted it high and thumbed the cork,
exploding gold heavenwards,
a filigree of Celtic harps against the sky.
Or is it the other way round...
earth’s blue splodged against the heavenly temple ceiling
Shekinah with angel harps?
Is it the sun warming the wine,
the bottle so hot, it must
must, must
break forth in effervescent twice-fermented fountain of praise,
breaking the green glass neck
and shouting with all its breath,
in every drop of music it can muster:
a never-ending bubbling
of lovesong language,
utterances never heard,
yet utterly understood.
Like the mountainside of birdsong in Sierra Nevada
where eagles watch
and grasses wave,
the broom nodding agreement;
where God paints purple, blue, scarlet
with vetch, speedwell, poppies;
and people from all nations
hear their own language in the scriptures,
and laugh
and cry
and glimpse the Lord Almighty
in bread and wine and water,
in Holy Spirit communion,
in ...
union.
Anon. Hacienda Los Olivos
Open-air communion, Friday 6th May 2011
