The Fisher King

For no reasons other
than the sea is seasoned
with wild white stallions
and sleep is anonymous,

I venture across a
tousled slip-knot of beach
in razor thin dawn mist.

As seagulls beat their wings
on the salt tinged air
of January,
Paddy is a restless dart
on the sand`s fragile ridges.

He crumbles their structures
to scatterings of iron dust
and stalks grey-green flotsam
on the tails of towering waves.

Then chases driftwood in the
small ghosts of footprints.

His hot eyes are blessed
languid as a June night.

In the barren sunrise,
I look above for a
God who does not speak and
the silence is unrelenting.