The Blessing Poem by Giles Watson

Is the moment of sunsplashed brilliance,
the walking-in by chance at the time
of greatest need. The blessing is swallows
alive from Africa, cavorting in English sky.

The blessing is a surprise, like luminescence
seen from a boat at night, between islands,
and the way it rises on the swell, the shallows
all aglow with it, the tide a woman’s sigh.

The blessing doesn’t choose. Its substance
is just bestowed. We have no right.
The blessing is the rustling of willows
when dawn comes, and mayflies love and die.

We are much in need of blessing. Its essence
will not distil: it evaporates if we try.
It’s lurking in shadows; it skulks in hollows.
It weeps, yet bids us fly.