Small is my island,
Upon which I steady,
Here at the helm I stand at the ready
Clouds move across my bow,
Wind and current toss my prow
Up from the calm red of morning, I fell
into the depths of violet storming of a violent squall;
The red blood dripped from oar to oar,
To swing the stern and cut the tack,
across death’s ugly path,
steer’d rudder through these ruddy waters
on the flags of tattered sails
towards the swirling swell
Life tolls a bell, a buoy upon the waves of hell
also
It snowed today ... I didn’t kow what to make of it.
Luke 12: 27-03
Lucan Charchuk, copyright 2003