Hidden

It is hidden
like a current beneath the waves
not thrashing and crashing and making a scene
not tossing and turning and clamouring for attention
but quietly, steadily, irresistably there.

It is hidden
like the trunk of a willow
As branches whip around in the wind
and leaves fly, and catkins cry out for fear of falling
In the turmoil it stands unmoved.

It is not found
in the stampede of the horse
or the silver words of the powerful
in the flashing diversions of billboards
or the honeyed lure of the bank balance

It is hidden
from all but those who seek it
those who are not turned
by the distractions that swirl
to the left and to the right

Those who know the still small voice
The word whispered close into the ear
“This is the way, walk in it”

© Rich Clarkson 2016

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