The Cormorant

 

He stands erect, Christ like

Arms spread wide,

Head not bowed, but turned aside

A crucifixion, yet basking in the sun.

Jet black, an Angel of coal,

Feathers dripping, jagged as knives

As if tormented, haunting souls,

With icy stare and blackened heart.

He might have been forced to hold

His wings for some dark crime,

A tableau fixed, a lesson to us all.

 

And then I thought of a vision seen

Beside the road on busy city street.

A woman, arms outstretched, all in a robe.

Palms held upwards, catching our dark sin.

Her beads draped over branching arms,

Her fingers, gnarled and thin

Counting out her penance – or our crime,

Muttered prayers her call, by all

Ignored, as rushing by on routes to work,

We little dwelt on roads to Hell, our fall.

Or how her pain could lead us to the Light.

 

Such visions may be placed amongst our world

To let us stop and think awhile,

And in the glassy depths or sodden pools

Reflect our world and ponder our dark lives

Shadowed warnings of a future dark.

A sign to turn around, or face the worst,

Repent now of deeds undone, of secret lies

And in their stillness, fixed amongst the throng

They carry mortal weight, holding deep despair

Ignored by most, we soon avert our eyes

And rush onwards in our quest so wrong.

They remain there, silent witnesses.

 

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