D.V. Cooke
On the Wheel
The drowned men who once went tall
To the gull-cropped wave, they also
Shall rise from the brine-deep all
Nurturing sea. There once at low
Ebb the land cast them out, saying
You were not born for this place nor
Of this time. Their lost faith turning
Here - turns now on that undershore,
Turns as though in sleep, the wheel
Heaves, buckling through the sun dying
Regions till they are brought to heel,
Are healed as fire touches their tongue.
Then up through the world’s tall age,
They from their last death are pitched,
Parted from the sea’s toil and surge,
Are thrust out of the brine-beached,
Sea-bleached deep, and then into air
They rise like flame into prayer.
Page(s) 69
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