There is a fascination with fireworks that crosses age, gender, geography and safety barriers.  The colours of the twinkling explosions open the pathways to inner seeing.while the thunder claps rattle the core of every being, drawing a passing awareness to the present as the voices utter awe and amazement.  The “doors of perception” are open wider than the crowbar of an Aldous Huxley book sparked by mescaline.  Mimicking an angel is far more grounding than chasing them in ladder dreams.  The spark that crosses from wing to smile may be the arc of a rainbow.

The bells in the belfry are muted before the call to mass.  Then as the clapper strikes the appointed time, all music stops and the spheres realign.  In the node-cancellation (before computer language and medical imaging borrowed the term) of the bells there is silence.  An awaiting.  Nothing happens on earth.  Nothing happens in heaven.  Between the soundings of the bell a portal to realignment opens.  A route through the chakras. The arc of the coloured flags waving hope for alignment.  A voice sparks into my night about the descended dove and a promise of all right righteousness and then the day-dream continues.  A new day breaks.  And i am not alone!

Across town, between the familiar heads, a vision.  Between the steeple and the steeple-chase a few steps.  Somewhere between the spirited words under the bell and the unsurveilled words about the stuff that really matters — the shared humanity unites —  there was a glimmer of hope.  Sunshine on a sunny day. The voices behind the colours sparked a new flame  No, not even Pentecostal, rather practical.  Arcing across the gaps, opening the door, to create a flame that warms, purifies, nurtures and enlightens.  Another day is yawning if we let it be. Sand arcing across toes.