Golden Eagle on Tallon Peak

I scrambled up,

pant’n.

Clung to rocks like lichen

asking for hinds feet

feeling hiking boot clunky. 

Breath back watermelon never tasted 

so summer sweet. 

How different our entrance onto this summit. 

The size of a full stop

you punctuated your way down

the Livingston Range

on the syntax of thermals

before stretching forth your talons,

clasping the mountain to yourself. 

In a telephoto stare

there

for five minutes, thirty metres away.

A vision,

on this ancient site of questing. 

Making sure we were watching,

you fell beak first 

so to speak, 

without words from your pulpit plinth.

A perfect parable from the book 

of creation,

a demonstration of creaturely trust.

I will never forget following

your flint face as you turned towards

your descension

banking on goodness and mercy

opened wide; browns, golds and whites

fluttering feathered bright.  

Spiralling twice over head, having been beneath,

effortless in elevation

to vanish into the south west, unhurried. 

Then, a warm Ruach roared

over the breathless peak,

snatching at my shirt, making me a flag of sorts.

In the laugh-cry of a holying holiness

I saw seven times magnified.

I was with John on Patmos. 

I saw Christ the Lord. 

I held hands with compassion

and prayed even more. 

Prophecy always provokes. 

Shaking things to settle the unshakeable. 

I leant in. 

Beak first so to speak. 

No words came.

Carried

aloft over the mystery of the hills.