A Feather On The Breath Of God Poem by Martin Ward

A Feather On The Breath of God

She waits.
We wait.
Her time has come.
I hold her hand
of antler velvet;
pale, translucent
lightly rests.
Earthly hold
still holds her sway,
despite the light that calls.
Such strength
of fragile form
that nature,
friend and foe
keeps grip.
Breath that croaks
and labours,
fights until the last.
Tired and weary
from the journey;
she did not know
how difficult
the final step would be.
She bore me
and changed me;
now she lies
in childlike form:
helpless, hapless, uncontrolled.
I know you sense us here;
I know you hear our prayers.
Listen for the gentle sound:
a feather on the Breath of God.