Chasing the breeze

If words could ever hope to catch your glory
I'd weave a net with worship,
cast it high from some uncluttered hill
and call you down
to nestle in my concepts...

But as my empty echoes die away on muted ground
I recognise again that, while we live,
you can only be received,
never given, never driven,
never caught and never bought

and you slip through our assumptions
like water through a sieve.

(c) A McN