This evening I sat on the garden in the glorious solstice sun reading a poem, when I heard a shrill call over head to see a kestrel flying by, the poem was Raptor by RS Thomas who was an Anglican priest in north Wales. I imagine he has a different perspective than I when he talks of God, but he refers to bird watching as akin to prayer...my God is probably nature and my prayer is a kind of meditative presence, but here it is 'Raptor' You have made God small, setting him astride a pipette or a retort studying the bubbles, absorbed in an experiment that will come to nothing. I think of him rather as an enormous owl abroad in the shadows, brushing me sometimes with his wing so the blood in my veins freezes, able to find his way from one soul to another because he can see in the dark. I have heard him crooning to himself, so that almost I could believe in angels, those feathered overtones in love’s rafters, I have heard him scream, too, fastening his talons in his great adversary, or in some lesser denizen, maybe, like you or me.

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