The Island

A ferry, green and white, chased by gulls’ cries
threads waters skinned with dancing diamonds

and blows its great horn to announce Work dies
and Play bursts its chrysalis in the sun.

We camp in a place where nothing happens.
A dramatist’s desert, where story starves
for lack of conflict but poems a pen
pours out in praise of the greening harvest.

Our sole duty is Eucharist, fitting
for a place pregnant with the truth that Thanks
is the first act of the human person
and that the world is gift, not achievement.

O my soul, so dulled with worldly care
Remember the grace and love always there.