not a man with long curly hair and
a beard, dressed in a robe. god is
blackness mainly, and colour, with
starbursts of bright bright fire. lots
of blackness and empty space. god
smells of peaches, vanilla, freshly
pressed olives, the tang of vinegar.
leaf mould in deep woods, pressed
down underfoot, and freshly brewed
coffee, served in a small cup. as familiar as heinz tomato soup, as
sweet as plump blackberries plucked
from the hedgerow. like honey.
sounds like the wind through the trees,
and waves crashing on the shore,
like the first cry of a newborn.
feels like fine bone china, feels like
your hand in mine, comes to enfold me
at four am. warm. safe. home.
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