Wednesday, August 28, 2019

We pray for the monks on High Island



High island pitching tossing, appearing disappearing,
in the dragon waves angered, now awake, risen from their silent deep.
I saw its sail, Féichín’s church rising falling through the flailing rain,
and him, a cross, arms extended; eyes, ovals of pain, elongated upwards;
mouth, grotesque black hollow gouged deep in weathered shale.
We prayed for them: six monks floundering in the ocean’s thrashing jaws;
that the weight of their sins would not drag them to their deaths;
that the light of God would shine and the saint would climb, extend his hands,
a rope, pull the others from the cleansing rage; that the light would split the sky,
send Lucifer’s demons  scurrying out beyond the margins of the sea.

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