roads to the highway of the milky- way,
leaves that beckoned autumns chill
to the houses on Slum Street.
A memory written on God’s map,
into a mind that can no longer remember,
gone to senilitys slumber land.
Are we the stuff that dreams are made on?
A pulse in the eternal mind,
or are we travelling
into the world of nothingness,
the land of lost content
down to the shadows of Sheol,
groping for meaning.
Many there are who say;
but Christ is in the place
where mere certainties mock His passion.
And so as we move once again
into that once familiar garden
and see the frost on the sundial,
we exercise faith and trust,
knowing that winter will pass.