by Alice C. Linsley
An island is no broad earth and yet
a universe of stones
where sands deny the foot firm ground
and wave hot fingers at the shade.
Here St. John in curling dunes
with mystic sight beheld
the wick of faith sputter and dim
the kingdoms roar and crash.
His prayer-trained ears heard trumpets blast
and pounding hooves gave way
to shouts of joy and glad refrains
across the watery stage.
(Published in Ancient Paths, Issue 13, 2005)