St. Brendan Celebrates

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.
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