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.