Whispers

Wreathed in light who live
and strive with those who have nothing
and yearn with them for sunlit uplands
and stretch out hands to the one 
who sheds tears of grief 
with those who've lost everything; 
Desolate who find strength
in noticing the gentle, 
who do no harm yet persist
in fashioning a world
where thirst for justice turns hearts
and allowances are made 
by those themselves falling short.

Hidden among the shining-faced
who invite others first 
coming last themselves 
to find God at the celebration
beckoning her guests to witness
enemies embracing, dancing 
in meadows where
from a lace-clad escarpment 
those who've persevered 
spill scarcely upright 
under weight of ills 
they've suffered 
championing right,

hidden in plain sight and
wreathed in anonymity
subverting self-centred purpose. 

I've heard whispers
heaven is the home
of many such as these.

©Janet Henderson 19th February 2020