Three sons alight vibrant energy still
A hand afire hangs upon the sky directs
Be quiet listen awhile the sea laps the soaked plank
and birds flock upon the oars.
Converse and battered opinion lie shattered here
as thought flicks uncomplicated knowledge as deeps sigh
Twisted effigy floats licked by salt mantra confined
to muddled head and furrowed thought.
“Be still” Barry confides “and listen”
“My Fathers house sits within fields of corn” Joe remembers.
Mo hands plead “My hands, my children soaked with blood”
A finger points and wanders never steadied.
Never lost, always found, always kept, untouched.
Withered never, word pronounced and held tight to chest
A truth half heard met with shouted denial closed ears.
Always blessed, lie at peace the battered boat.