Small clouds float by
Edged with gentle evening pastels
I gaze at them through the window, almost dispassionately noting their beauty
It doesn't seem right somehow that things should still be beautiful
When there is lead in our limbs
And ashes in our souls.
The shout rises in my throat:
"You can't just carry on around us as though nothing is happening; as though nothing has changed!
Mourn with us!"
But the words don't come out of my mouth
A distant part of me; the part that stands and observes me, recognises my absurdity
But acknowledges my need to protest
It knows that the time will come when these very beauties will help to lighten the burden
As they keep pointing to the loveliness of the One who puts them there for us to see.