I have come to recognise God in a violent song,
played in the evening with broken forks and knives.
If I refuse to kneel, the winter starts at the end of September,
on Tuesdays, when I pass by the Jewish quarters.
My road to confession starts, just the same, in the morning chill.
The stones, the trees, the sky have a message,
of that I am certain, arrived at the wooden door of the hermitage.
And I knock and I knock.
A raven finally opens the white background.
The raven says with calculated words that, at present,
this government is busy.
Important wars need attending, in a land like no other.
I am given a form and I hear the padlocks.
I jump on the treadmill to keep warm.
Photo: copyright@John Stadnicki, 2016