The light is soft and shadowed.
A row of ancient beach huts stand
Still and gloomy
Against the black sand.
Memories of naked saints and blue kaftans
This is where bottled prayers crash
against green slippery cliffs
Spilling up over edges and onto roads
Where there used to be paths…
Amazing, isn’t it?
what the tide brings up?
Sometimes though, there are red flowers,
floating in the water, just off the road,
waiting to offer comfort…
Sometimes, a love’s painful birth,
From a weary soul’s victory,
Over a life, whose shadows fling,
To murder a loss that wounds and stings.
Though, they may yield with the taste of tears,
A sorrow tucked
Behind the thistles of layered years.
He has forgone the shrine of youth,
to chisel grace
From the toiling labor
Of mining truth.
For only the wild will dare
To tempt the cruel decay
Of man’s cathedral mind,
And lift upon his beaten back
The sweet legacy of resurrection divine
And bend his worn-out quivering knee
To be knighted by Love’s sacramental
Let us haste into that dark and sunless day
Where hope clings on to the dreams of yesterday
Where the parting sun is voiceless and the twilight,
like the morning, is cold, and the lightness
Of summer evenings has grown tired and solemn and old
I say, let us roam along the night-rimmed fields
Where the wind has blown joy astray
And love the dying of the youthful days
And the shadows ’round that beloved’s face
Will yield and skulk away