ISLAND WORSHIP

Small white church,
divine in its simplicity,
radiant in the sun,
but still so new.
Come nightfall, this island,
ancient, elemental,
harkens back to older gods.

Walk the trails, long after midnight.
Stare hard at the waves,
breaking in the moonlight off Green Point.
Is that Poseidon, striding through the surf,
waving his trident to summon the tide?
Now to the ice pond, where Nyads sing,
languid in the shadows of its far shore.
Or point your flashlight to the earth:
are those tiny, cloven footprints there?
And what is that ethereal music, barely heard?
Perhaps Pan and his pipes perch atop Black Head,
deep in duet with the sea’s own song.
Next, through the rising fog to a grove of birch:
watch the Dryads, dancing in the ocean breeze.
You’ll glimpse them only from the corner of your eye:
sometimes pale, slender women,
grace incarnate,
sometimes, just wind-blown trees.

Now, as morning nears, the night spirits fade.
Here, Athens and Bethlehem will each have their hour.
So, presently, the sun rises high,
burning the mist from seaward cliffs,
like a veil from the face
of our younger God.

David Reece