Was ever thus, 

when the pilgrim came from

the sea,

fearing the return.

—-

They stayed in a 

still small island

listening for the

thin place and

—

finding only birds

and the rolling waves,

filling the air

with music,

when they looked for 

—

God. In the waiting 

they smile at flowers

nodding in the bee breezes

and glower at the dark clouded horizon.

——

Slowly time slipped by and the shore

filled and emptied to a rhythm 

set by the Spirit,

and the pilgrim 

picks driftwood  

as a memory.