Sea Change
Limpid, langourous
tubes of being
blacker than bruised
bananas,
the sea cucumbers repose
on the sable sand
of an emerald lagoon.
How still they are
and silent
under palm tree shadow
or moonlight spill.
I think they’re praying
to a cucumber god.
You can almost hear them sigh,
Lord, give us the day
when our souls shall arise
fierce and free
of this tubular life.
Let us be
dazzling white,
phosphorous birds
borne on waves
of Christic light.