Is this what they call faith:

believing that one day there will be light coming again into this shrouded place, this slow, dark river at the bottom of a sunless cave where blind fish swim?

Is this what they call faith:

believing that before long there will be a stirring in the deep, black water, of something small, more smelled and felt than seen, like the knowing of Spring that comes before the snowdrops bloom?

A promise like a tiny, faintly flickering lamp, held by a messenger who rides before the dawn.

A turning that happens when the pendulum of night reaches its farthest stretch and pauses, rests for a heartbeat in between the breathing out and breathing in.

This is the oyster's hinge, opening, closing with the rhythms of the tide.

This is the waltz of life, the tiptoe pause before the glide.

Loosen you fingers, now, from the dark rocks.

Be ready. For the tide is turning. Soon there will be light. Quite soon, there will be light.

You cannot see it yet, but it will come. Believe it will - and must.

They call this faith.