This Island Home

On storm-ripped nights when seaboards crack And wings of angels rendered black Are clouds that seethe and boil on high, The canvas of some desolate sky. On empty days like shredded rags Trailed down from mountain peaks and crags To flap across the barren floors Uneven plains and lakeland shores. On trails of tears to God knows where, When weary eyes flood with despair, The turgid creep of asphalt stress, Grey flannels tied to emptiness. In this vast cathedral sanctuary, With faith and love, democracy, Within, without, beloved view, This island home stands firm and true.