Church of Blue Tides
In the mist, like a dream, she has weathered the seasons…
On the wind swept shelf, as if silently sleeping
Where souls in her graveyard, are hers for the keeping
Staring out at the tide, where the seagulls sweep low
In the moldering courtyard, one can linger awhile
Among ancient arches of the old Mission style
Names locked in history, and stories revealed
are etched in the headstones, now ancient and frail
The cracked marble fountain once shimmered so fair
Above the church doorway, vines have withered and died
Aloft from the steeple, are the four watchful eyes
Looking out over waters, of the deep crimson tide
Three bronzed vestige bells dangle high overhead
Their voices are silenced, by the time keeper's death
The rafters are filled with the toll of the dove
To offer their souls for the bells that lost breath
And the echo's of sainthood, and moss covered jade
From the crumbling ruins, stones humbly laid
Dark shadows of saints stain the moss covered jade
A weeping old willow, with leaves brittle and dry
One drinks with the ears, and listens with eyes
The bronze clangs of vespers, and prayer chanting tides
One might hear the ancient echo, yet, for whom do old bells call?
Making sense of the senseless, are there untold stories tolled?
Giving voice to age-old questions, and feelings unexplained
The bells ring out, without a sound, across the human tide
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