A pastel photograph weaving cotton and cool.
In the mist of a matinal harbour, or later haven,
A boat, at rest on the crests of sleeping waves.
It’s no longer the sea, and no land to call a port
And yet, above the skiff, the soul of a seagull
Could guess the sky in the absence of clouds.
It is flying, at no more knots than a tired coble
And though beacons on waters without waves
Would be wasted whims of groundless worries,
It’s safer to be hauled by the sollicitude of wings
So blessed they can fly in the absence of winds.
In the midst of the fog, the fisherman follows it
To the end of fate, to the phantom figure of faith.
Yes, that village church, a suspended Jerusalem,
Its roof and its squire, a sharp though dark shape.
Aware of the waters above and the waters below,
In the modesty of a mist trying to mute a mystery,
In the secrecy of a sanctuary on a trove of truth,
It harbours the hope for home to shameful hearts.
Poorer than empty fishnets, a stranded soul then learn
To guess a glimpse of God in the absence of higher spirit.