I see a meadow, our meadow is coming. A place where the butterflies of grace flit to and fro by unearthly rhythms, and the grasses are clothed in splendour. Where cornflowers explode like blue star fireworks and the poppies sing in zinging red robes. Sky and blood and gold move in the Spirit’s breath; the dandelion roars God’s praise, and the humble daisy sways, eyes closed in pink-edged prayer.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt