The Tryst
Darkness
surrounds me so profound
it has
swallowed sky and all its stars
with menacing
shadow that begins to
chew and churn
the crashing spray.
All the world
is in ferocious fury,
a devil’s
frenzy unleashed to toss sail
and cloud
against the bared depth of ocean.
If this is not
the valley of death, the
frightful water
mountains we ride with
little say as
to destiny of brig or life,
that I can
scarce imagine deeper pit
of doom to
consume us in an instant.
O wind! Wind of
such anger! Why do
you howl round
us, like some possessed
hound, beast by
spear in heart wounded?
Did our jib cut
a vital vein, or our main
scratch,
disturb you on your way? Or does
some depression
of the air[1]
bewitch your mind,
make you
stumble with push and shove
as you gallop
in splitting pain? I have no
balm to offer,
save compassion negated
by a crushing
ire, transforming into tryst.
So I find my
appeal in the Star of the Sea,
the one star
constant and unchanging,
uncovered even
in the clouds of squall.
Mary! Be now
close, advocate of sinners,
surest recourse
of mariners! Spread
thine azure
cloak bejeweled with night’s
stars, to guide
us safe through trying storm.
To you we cry,
to child Jesus, to pet this
mass of mighty
air, mellow it and
the pounding
waves cracking our hull.
And such a
morsel of living faith I have,
that with pull
of sheet and secure brace
I pray so that
I feel as safe as one sure rock
with promise of
salvation. Even in
the whip of
rain I hear already gentle whisper
of rising don.
Just a little more, and God
Himself will
unfold happy right of His
waxing Glory in
the rosy sky of East.
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