Was ever thus,
when the pilgrim came from
the sea,
fearing the return.
—-
They stayed in a
still small island
listening for the
thin place and
—
finding only birds
and the rolling waves,
filling the air
with music,
when they looked for
—
God. In the waiting
they smile at flowers
nodding in the bee breezes
and glower at the dark clouded horizon.
——
Slowly time slipped by and the shore
filled and emptied to a rhythm
set by the Spirit,
and the pilgrim
picks driftwood
as a memory.
