wounded by the image
(or the thought of the image)
close to the home of childhood
stoic heroism
waist deep in life's coldness
yet the romantic endurance
surpassing pain and its contingencies
spur him on and on
at night time
St. Francis statued out of place and time
drops his arms
uttering a sigh that heals
the land for miles around
dawn breaks and before the sleepers
rise to prayer
he takes up his station once again
kevin of the two lakes
stigmatised with the twiggy nest
rewarded by blue speckled
glimpses of heaven
he stands in the teeth of gales
burning sun
blessed rain
grounded firmly
defended by the territorial cry
fed on song alone he stands
a living monument to the landscape
servant of the other servants of god
welcomed with outstretched arms
opened hands ready for the nailing
in lenten observation
with easter as yet uncertain
