Only Then. Like now.

This time of the morning you do not need a map.
East. You travel East, towards the light.
Sooner or later you will arrive at the edge of the world
and simply sit. Before breakfast. Before prayers.

There is color.
A few rich hues that will disappear shortly.
The dark sea will turn blue. The distant clouds
will blow in.

The wind is from the East. From the sea.
Not gusty, a firm few miles an hour.
You wear your old blue stocking cap,
but it will not be needed soon.

In the end, every comes from the sea.
Life. Healing. Peace. Storms.
And so you come back again and again,
yesterday and today.

Not to see the sights. You have traveled enough
to have seen them all. Now, you wander. You sit.
You have time to wait for the tides.
Breathe in the air. Time to wait.

You are not even sure exactly what you wait for.
Only that something is missing,
something you cannot define, only feel,
a vague malaise in need of feeding.

But this you know, God lives in the sea,
coming and going with the tides,
Always there for those who have time to wait,
but only then. Like now.

About this poem.

I am sitting in a coffee shop at the tip of Cape Cod, a kind of pilgrimage place for me when I am out of sorts, drained, worn out or rudderless. Even when I do not know exactly what is missing, time sitting at the edge of the ocean seems to fill me.

Tom