Poetry By
Ken Burnstall
Published on: 1/21/2014
Saint Brendan, Becalmed, on the Hellas Sea
And in the midst Of spiteful North Atlantic seas Brendan bails his coracle And prays for a sky that is not Grey as a pigeon's wing For an ocean that smiles Under a butter yellow sun And, of a sudden The sky turns a dusty pink And gentle waves, Huge but never breaking Like magnified ripples Move the leather boat Up and down In front of a horizon That is just too close Lit by a sun That is bright but small Haloed by ice crystals The air is thin and cold To the south The jagged crest of Amphitrite Patera, Punches through the dusky crust Like a fist And tonight God (If there is a God, And He is listening) Will hear praise from two planets
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