What was the point of going there
except to be apart, to leave behind
the babble of the voices that could never know
how many angels there were dancing on a pin.
This was beyond a place where silence spoke –
A few fields scattered in between the rocks,
A well of water for the quenching of their thirst
And beehive cells for shelter come the dark.
These were the simple things that made their lives.
What mattered more was breaking through
from out of solitude and quiet, now and then,
Into somewhere else; a realm
where they could know the voice of God,
that took them from the ordinary
into a deeper light and out of time.
Poem Kenneth Steven
From his latest book of poems