It is still Easter, though we are aground
this monster’s back, tethered to its tail.
This is still an island, as it rises in swells,
falls in troughs, follows wanton tides.
Still a mooring, a port enough
for our feast. Our Lord is still risen.
Still our hearts that burn and yield
a Sabbath. A sun pierces overhead.
Still our basket of a boat, shearwater
seeking the Isle of the Blessed. And
here at the foot of the rood we planted,
between the scales, a silent nest.
