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St. Enda, on the shore in winter
Christian Century, Dec 18, 2002 by Steve Wilson
St. Enda, on the shore in winter the island of Inishmore, Ireland This is the shape of a murmur turned on air. It tells how hills wear down. Gray stone, too. Sound. Wind always works its way through, and walls won't last. The ocean, the farther coast across the bay: today they disappeared beneath a blank parchment of clouds. Along the barrens to the shore, no one comes. No one has passed here for months. My coracle, clothed in seaweed and periwinkles, is a black-backed turtle beached since summer. There is only the surprise near dark, of seeing seals-- their foolish heads surfacing beyond the breaks to watch me gather mussels. I am lost, Lord. Asleep in a deep womb of chill rain. The future mumbles to me like a river bed. This is the place the ground unwound. Where earth, weary of its heft and ragged-bone soul, stumbled and shuddered, exhausted.
COPYRIGHT 2002 The Christian Century Foundation
COPYRIGHT 2008 Gale, Cengage Learning
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