They lean in silent watchfulness
Three Cypress trees whose skyward longing
Was crafted by prevailing winds.
They rest now boughs on graveyard walls
And stand as sentinels to the few souls
Who choose the ground near Fox’s Pulpit
To reside, in the lingering aura
Of his three hours of passion
Before a gathered throng
A thousand strong
His revelation this: that we each need not
Seek the authority of God beyond
The boundary of our skin
Yet outside the common mind,
But with attentive heart.
His pulpit like a stony eye
Pushes out above a grassy knoll
Motionless before the open space
Serene with changing light and form
Here he stood atop where now sheep
Come keep vigil and spoke of
The Source within the ever present silence
That conveys the power to awaken souls.