Moving slower than I thought one could.
He is wearing black high-boots, bright safety vest, and a soft felt beret.
I am not sure why, but I think he is a policeman.
I don’t know if this is what he was expecting to find –
Hard to believe that anybody would
Leave home hoping to wind up here on this forgotten shore, so cold, so early.
From where I’m standing, I don’t see the plan.
I am not sure why, but the policeman seems tired, weary –
I suppose a good one should be.
He is slightly hunched forward, head down – he might be writing in a diary.
From where I’m standing, I can’t see his hands.
But there is not much here this morning – the island edge is clean
Except for one small piece of driftwood
That has settled finally on the shifting-surf border between earth and beryl sea.
A satin sky, yet one face still shines in the wet sand.
She’s turned her copper kettle on its side
Spilling purple remnants in the tide,
Yet there is no attempt to hide
It from Justice she’s never known.
And the inland sea is all-night washing,
Clearing the streets for the cowered-kings.
And while the evening tide is falling, so
Death’s pale tender-pile keeps growing.
Somewhere there’s a raft listing to one side,
Spilling wretched refuse in the night.
Is there no pilot left to guide
Them through the storm – to bring them home?
Yes, the inland sea is always working,
Raising tribute to the king-coming.
Forsaken loves shall heed his calling to
Ascend, slender tapers, now glowing.
September 5, 2015
Daniel 10-12, Ezekiel (1,10, 12, 28, but especially Chapter 24)
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