A New Metre: Poetry Archive

“And he saith unto me, Write . . .” —Revelation 19:9

Evangelium Maris

I am constrainéd to look on the bay,
to see the rolling waves.
The Everlasting speaks to me
in unending ways.

The World grows upon the tide,
goes ever in and out;
but each time it returns again,
’tis low about.

Ever farther out,
ever lower down —
I sense the tide will not return,
but will drown.

I fetch a cup of ocean
to bring upon the strand.
Is this the last one
to land?

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