I love lying in bed on cold, dark mornings and listening as
the gas boiler kicks in. ‘All is well!’ The same reassurance as you might have felt when
lullabied in an ocean-going liner by the distant throb of the engines. Or on
the Caledonian sleeper bearing you home from Euston by the rhythm of wheel on
rail-joint. Something deep in me is soothed by the boiler’s ignition. Perhaps
it’s fanciful, but I wonder if I subconsciously recall the months before I was
born, the pulse of that life-giving heartbeat.
One small planet in an immense, cold cosmos. Out there, is
there simply silence, or can we, if we listen, discern a sustaining pulse, a
benevolent purposefulness, cadences of that love song most memorably vocalised
by the sweet singer of Golgotha?
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