Poem 160: Clacton-on-Sea_Walk-on-Water

looking back in sunlight over our shoulders
at the blowing wave dappled sea
through our light enamoured eyes
with the sister of mercy still passing by
flying her habit against the restless, holy
and pentecoastal wind, she smiling
inwardly and outwardly, as we both heard
the crippled lady in the old empired
and creakingly brittle cane bath chair
wheelingly exclaim, in a spray spittle
flecked prayer of clattered vowels
and dribbled nouns,that hymned
an oh so gracious thank you to the sea
“that is quite romantic”
and although this was croaked and cloaked
in a harsh and almost disbelieving deliverance
I believe she was speaking in tongues
as was the church sheltered, catholic
bronzed and prow mounted feminine christ
when he was fishing for male complements
that would enable him to see through
his own camp of barbed wire to the captured
shoals of light that riccoched
into the arc of sea and compromised sky
where he must have seen to the far horizon
of now, as in water colours mirrored
by ribbons of silver,the toy blue coastal train
huffing and puffing crusadingly
along this sea front to do battle with
our pretentious infidelites, and to blow
our many mansions down.
and this train, entrances, collects and dances
the children, pied piping the rocking light
into small showers of perfectly compleated rain
falling as strands of opalescent fire
onto the concrete storm barriered beach
where the batterned sun lies dreaming warmth
into the sea swept and mythically patient stone
which in this unguarded moment resevoirs
this occulted life within life, coalescing
all the light and shadowed particle
of our senses, now teamed, dreamed
and gathered in by this earthly plough suspended
and constellated still by these lines of sight
that evening persists in pulling through
the sense awakened wires of our night
enamoured eyes, fixed on distant stars
but now guided and pulsed by this pilot
of divine blood, who will hesitantly, but gladly
into our scattered bodies go.

en coda. this is the bridge
crossing over
-deo volente-
-in flagrente-
to the untouchable green
fingers caressing
the flower
in the keys
of toccare and fuge
the organ grinders
saturnalian aria
sings to the stone
of a water letting
that courts
the dryest
blade of bone
to spark
a catching fire
descending with
the darkling angels
that conversationally
fly into this room
within this room
where for a brief
interlude, we are
docked and alone

and finally knowing we must leave
this place of unmaking,and of forgiving
even this time, I listen to your sleeping breath,
tasting in the glass of my mouth
the last wine of you, swirling currents
on the tip of my tongue, pressed to the roof
of my being, I float, insubstantial now
and light enough to walk on water