Ebb and Flow

Written by Samuel Wilson

Abandoned seminary hall
outside Sentani, giant shoulders
hunkered silent in the forest,
marble terrace flanked by brown
and scarlet pillars, pennants waving.
Lightning flaring soft above the hills.

I sit along the topmost step
and read aloud a little while,
pronounce each sound and letter,
feel them pearling in my mouth
and breathed into the dusk.

All at once the burst of noise:
shrill cricket-shriek and raindrops
clattering on tin, a dozen masjids
howling out their dour adhans,
untethered anjings wet and yelping,
last protest of soot-stained clouds
and then sheer screen of sound
across unfastened doors.

I rise, reflect that all words have
their spell, so long as they are said
aloud for no one but ourselves
and God. It’s how the crickets sing,
and how the rain rings on the step
to break the eremitic hush,
and why the sky must still itself
unfolded like a swelling sail
before the torrent and the rush.

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Samuel Wilson is a student at the University of Stellenbosch in South Africa, though he grew up in Canada. He believes poetry at its best should strike a delicate balance between praise for what God's grace has already accomplished and prayer for what it has yet to redeem. When not reading and writing, he can be found walking local trails, chatting with friends, or both.

He writes on Substack at: