Saturday, 13 January 2018


Feet clang on the rock,
Clunk on the soils:
The Waste Land.

Star guides,
Lightly crystalline,
To the waterside.

Escape! Escape!
Sound the waves:
Sound the heartbeats.

Feet tread the boards:
The ship of faith;
The ship of fools.

Who held my hand, boarding?
Mercy to the left;
Grace to the right.

What would have held me?
Satan’s tentacles, without me;
Lusts and fears: parasites.

The Morning Star guides,
Attracts the eye.

We launch towards it.
The rowers keep pace,
Mercy and grace.

Hope at the prow
Watching and calling
Hosannahs and warnings.

But O the misadventures –
Rock and tides – as I
Was a skill-less helmsman.

Who would deliver me?
My eyes must fix on the star;
My hand be fixed by the Pilot.

But what wrestling, what
Arm-wrestling; till my arm,
Under the Pilot’s hand, rests.

The river splays:
Salt tangs the spume;
We plunge through surf.

Onward, onward
Guided by the high Star,
By the chart, by the Pilot.

Towards Colosse,
There to freight the boat
With bright nuggets.

Towards Corinth
There to take on
Firm building material.

Towards Ephesus,
There to gain a lading
Of precious stones.

And at Philippi – true,
Noble, just, pure, amiable gems,
Of good report.

Port by port, all
My crew’s fervour ditching
Useless ballast.

Forward, forward
Till the Sun breaks upon
The desired haven!

“Let them give thanks unto Jehovah
For his loving-kindness
And for his wondrous works
To the children of men.”

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