Churning, configuring, contorting
as a beetle beneath a boot you,
are gasping,
aching for a breath that flees from you.
A prayer comes down to greet you but
you haven’t a religion
to use.
You say:
“I am quite hollow; an echo, in the belly of a ship,”

but I do not believe it.

I fold your clasped hands away,
and remove the crucifix around your neck and say:
“Leave it. It is not for you.”

With your dumb feet I
lead you,
down the road and across the greensward
until your toes

meet the cool water.

I throw an arm out and say:
“Tell your sins to the sea.”

Out you wade, as a
prophet compelled
by a dream.

Your cry;
it is a crack of lightning,
that shatters the silence that has kept you weeping.
I hear you say:

“I have been waiting for you…all my life.”

And the ocean takes you away.

Later,
this day,
I take you home;

and you are smiling. You have finally met your god.