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The summer sun slanted in through the windows

filling the chapel with soft amber light:

rumours of the day's heat.

Together, we sought the accustomed cadence

of song, psalm and silence,

and formed the familiar fragments of worship

into an ordered whole.

"Where two or three are gathered together..."

Then, you asked for more.

Breathless with our daring

we tossed you our ideas,

new, half-formed, rough, with un-thought edges.

Entranced, we watched as,

with a juggler's skill you caught them -

not one fell to the floor -

and wove a delicate tracery,

a new matrix of meaning.

"And to you is born this day"

... is newly born ... imagination.

© Neil Quintrell