Riding a blue wind
she hangs on the sea line, blowing
like a sail from the rippling filament,
above the ever torn and ever mended waves,
and nowhere peace.
The wind has stripped her will,
the shadows and the sun have
blinded back the black and vacant rocks,
given restless wrack and seething foam
a splashing spurious pirate gold,
but nowhere peace.
The perfect angled arch, the symmetry
is hers, the art and all
the making hand of man,
the walls that crumble,
the bleeding words that ran,
and nowhere peace
except the peace
her being brings
unknown, past measure.
Image by the gifted poet and photographer, James Rainsford