Without hope's oars, adrift on shallow griefs,
and swamped by sudden squalls of doubt and fear,
shall I be taken by the tug of time's
strong tide out of the citied harbour near
your farming hand, out to the mountain swell
and drowning waves of that engulfing sea
where hope's horizon circles with no land,
where left and right are meaningless directions
and North and South stretch to the same conclusion?
I cannot answer you the easy question.
While your words recede on every hand
my tongue unlearns the words of explanation
nor have my thoughts the finger-strength to straighten
the question mark into an exclamation.
Between the flocks and shoals of fish and gull
my hand can steer no helm to any haven
nor stretch the tenting cloud-sail to a harbour.
Drawn on a spiral to the dragging centre,
the drowning worldpool of my wanting nature
wherein my fleet of fragile word-crafts wreck
there in the hollow dark of my swift future -
the words that you have spoken for my sake
are windlost in the surge of turning water.
The turning stars are spinning as you speak.
But be!
But be!
But be and stars may stay.
Though towing tides may tug, their waters slip
and loose their heaving hold. The steadied deck
may turn again against the weather's check.
But be, that storming clouds unmask the moon -
the tide will still and turn, the wind will fail.
Your lodestar love will lead my seeking prow
back through dread and hazard - guide the hull
beneath the rocky headland of my fear,
below the homing land's returning hill
back to the easy harbour of your care.
Then, for your sake, the weather will be still
and fish and gull sail at the mast and keel.
Within your reaching hands the dawn shall break,
your breath of love will anthem in the sail
and all the hills be haven
for your sake.
Honorable winner
Gold trophy winner
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