Lake Petworth, Sunrise
After J.M.W. Turner
In the last minutes of dawn, deer come
To drink the cold waters, fog lapping round
Them like the darkness of old woods. They’ve waited
All night to slake their thirst. But when the sun
Cuts through the mist that softens the world’s edge,
They vanish—lost like prayers we don’t remember,
Blind to desire in the blunt light of day.
(Reflections are provided each week by a member of the congregation.)0 Like this?