Selma

From starboard you wail to me, ‘where is the baby’, a terrified moan across the sea, a crescent moon at Christmas, we don't know where to be, the radar off the mast, surrounded by auxiliaries, coastguard lights blink officially, wind hides our folded dreams, they lead us here to Sicily, please lady hold her fast, these Garden of Gethsemane, no matter who says what, indifferent or responsibly, she is warn and snug at last, robbers have fled the scene, but God will find a way, in the cold light of spring, he will have his say..