On The Mountain Slope

On that very high mountain slope grass did cling
to our bare feet, some branches scraped us,
where we overlooked fishermen at sea,
where their boat suddenly rose up and down.

Below big waves washed against the hill,
I did not trust the cliff, the mountain side
and right there you firmly grasped my hand,
when the heaven became bluer than your eyes.

Did our open eyes deceive us right there?
or did somebody walk on the water,
as if the sea is an open grass field,
to the boat that was rocking up and down,
before Him the whole sea was wide open;
what a wondrous type of occurrence.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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