The Crossing (2)
(Reaching the island)
Barnacles’ grinding on the last storm sands
As I pulled my boat ashore,
Gulls distracted from their flotsam feast,
Shriek loud profane anger, with wings of swords.
I cross the shingle water line –
Across the changing dunes,
Until I reach the fields –
Where no plough has raped the land;
And cut new paths,
Through long turf grass
To climb the sacred hill.
What ancient rites were practiced there?
Just myths of minds;
That changed shadows, into men,
Seal’s into fairy folk.
Still I find more peace
In this sea spawned place,
Then all Cathedrals’ spires invoke.
John Anthony Fingleton ( 2015 June) © (Löst Viking)