Photo used by permission. https://armstreet.com
The last light fades, for it is winter now;
there is a thorn-pierced shore, within the cove
with waves that overlap the tides that rove
ragged with driftwood, on a distal bronze brow.
The ocean held the saline ship’s bow;
beneath the salty waves the orcas dove
to sandy darkened depths of blue and mauve,
that rose to Magnificat’s undertow.
And the floor threw shells of alabaster
with frequent storm and violent drenches,
the greenest land was littered now with stone.
The innocent hands of trees were master,
constant arms outstretched between two branches
made of the Virgin Mother’s bluest bone.