Horizon is illusory.
White sails appear across the morning watch,
are lost at noon,
and sighted once again at vespers
when the antiphon is sung.
Beneath them at the rail
another sailor over there
may share the vision,
half of fantasy that I exist
and half in brotherhood of faith
in mythic splendor of mirage.
and there am I
when sails and sky
reflect the blooded sun
as I linger on the deck, yet blest,
my restive fingers touch
the talisman around my neck
while he in supplication to a headless God
beneath the little guillotine
suspended on his chest,
would be content to marvel
that a lordly mendicant like mine
could stretch his body on a yoke of wood
and die like that.
Copyright © Robert Ludden | Year Posted 2013
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