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.
