An Evening Prayer

Ron Koppelberger

An Evening Prayer

The deathlessness of an angel in minds of contemplation and fulfillment, it was a vertical requisition in sympathies of worship and remedy, the wings of repose and an evening prayer.
The priest mourned the tangled knot of shadow that had revealed the labyrinth of assembled vaults and crumbling crypt walls. He traced a decoration that adorned one of the stone tombs, wreaths of rose blossom and webs of designed harvest wheat. The hearth of tranquil sleep ran the length of the cathedral.
A forgotten crypt, new construction on the church fascia had accidentally uncovered the vault. Father Nandina walked the length of the crypt. His footprints were shallow pools in the ancient dust. He had been inspired by the conclave of secret parishioners laying a thick padded quilt near one of the crypts. He lay down on the quilt, vulnerable in spirit to the moment. He had removed his jacket and wadded it into a ball, a makeshift pillow. The balance of reason and ancient expectation filled his consciousness as he drifted into a dream of angels and demons in winged combat. A battle for the soul of man ensued. He dreamed of vast vistas of wheat and saffron bloom, perhaps it was a time to come, what was yet to be. He dreamed and an angel touched his brow, bequeathing a blessing and the power of god’s love.