It was on the sandy quay, rusting amongst

the lobster pots and shells and tangled nets.

It lay


and I tried its weight, iron heavy, covering

my sandy hands with golden, rust dust,

and I wondered how it felt to have them

tightly wound around my wrists and how

I would struggle, fumble and crumble.


I thought of him who was chained, as

the lashes rained down on his tender

flesh. Goodness dies when we stand by 

and do nothing, consenting to its death.


Is it me or the chain that is anchored to 

to a grounded fisherman’s boat, with a

place for a sail, named Haelwen in paling

gold paint, pealing a little from its travails?


The sand shifted ‘neath the gulls’ lament,

as the tide turned and made its charge, 

turning the stones and scouring the shore,

and climbing the pilings of the ancient pier.


I stood back and waited until its power

lifted up the boats, pulled the chain to life.

Links clanked and grated as the ride began,

the boat trying to escape but held by might.


Rusty smells were washed into the turmoil,

sweet salty air bringing an uncertain peace.

The untenanted vessel rode the waters well,

rocking and bobbling, thinking itself freed.


I thought of him, broken and bloody, bowed,

as he broke the grave chains that threaten, 

and bind our hearts tightly to lucre and fear,

looking for a key that will open the lock.


I watched the tide as it turned and fussed

striving against the taut chains and ropes,

and I was left wondering the mystery, alone, 

as he must’ve done in the darkened garden.

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margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

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