Time to speak. We’re sitting in a circle
uttering poems in a very British
order. A lady
reads the Lord’s Prayer – a new translation
from Aramaic - and – it’s not even a poem!
Rhymes and meter missing,
as far as I can hear.
Upsetting. Right -
but the room seems to quieten -
listen - and vision
softens, blurs - as if -
kind of – hard edges turn gorgeous, creamy
and a rosy heart settles,
well, into silence.