The devil fancied a sea-change
and visited our coast. Some brisk salt air (he must have thought)
would be the thing to freshen up his ancient point of view.
Along our warmest southern sands
he looked like one of us,
strolling in cheap flip-flopping sandals and sunglasses reflecting the surf.
Tourists splashed in tide pools,
others piloted kites, and all were ignored just like the shells and wet treasures
shifting and crunching underfoot.
Seems he was beachcombing for spiritual flotsam as he narrowed his eyes in the sun,
for even in a place so languid as this
there must be one soul he could own.
So into our port town he hoofed it
(well sorry for the pun-poor verb)
where hidden behind quaint weathered facades the real bones of the region lay bare:
shacks shambles ignorance
off-season poverty that's endured all year in a place hidden from
the rules of the mainland, from duty, and conscience, and care.
Whatever nurtures this fog here
that blurs and distorts human hope,
certainly _this_ was more to his liking -- without effort he reached out to grasp
a mind
a hand
a means
a knife.
Voices wailing up from the squalor
competed with the cormorants' cries.
The devil's vacation was a busman's holiday, leaving us here to never know why.
Come along at last
to a common stagnant pond,
its location in anonymity
among tall surrounding grass.
Tread green sentries -- each blade discrete
but bound push-pull by windy tides --
and bend close to see on liquid
what's reflected there:
clouds above your shoulders.
Spirits that are kept.
Inventions for comfort,
since all the pool can ever cast
is light you're not afraid to see.
Any remaining insight
sinks beneath murkiness and silt,
and lost-in-thought fingers dangled there
are rewarded with what glides by.
Spines scales and articulations
too ancient to survive
except where sod and water meet.
Then stand, retreat at last
back across the field,
wipe stained hands on a sleeve
while fixing eyes straight ahead.
Wash with purer fluid from faucets,
expect the sun to rise on time.
The turbid waters are far away --
no, they pump in every vein.
crown o' gems | darkwaves+larkwings sky
jewel@gleeful.com
a seraph production