Father Lapsely composes
Sunday's sermon walking
ill onto blinding mudflats, out to where
the water is sky-coloured, sky the colour
of the hills seen through mist
his entrails scrawled
on a tiny white
flag of paper. Recovering a little
from blowjob thoughts, he thinks
the land the people once
wondered about and cared for
despite its seeming indifference
who now find it easier to say
Blow you Jack, I'm okay.
Damn it, he curses
how about some light? Turn up the light you stingy
blighter, this estuary is like a morgue!
And adds, despairing, I think
therefore I am a dimwit.
Gray against grey, gulls treadle the mud
to bring shellfish up.
The pink hulk of a retired speedboat rests
a hip on koru-patterned sand.
Pink-breasted, pink-legged, a heron
rises like a cripple. Th-th-that's
more like it, he stammers
then turning notes
the children behind picture windows
ablaze with sunset genuflecting
before cathode heroes.
© Graham Lindsay