Marvels and Miracles

Marvels and Miracles

Talmont on the Gironde
For A. E. Dyson, 1928–2002

At Talmont pilgrims paused and prayed
en route for Compostela: paused
to worship miracles, while we
stop here to marvel that the sea
never destroyed this little church,
perilous on its rocky perch.

An ancient graveyard overrun
by flowers, bright in midday sun
—ground lilac, roses, hollyhock—
welcomes us and makes me think
of Tony, friend of fifty years,
who would have loved these quiet ways.

Inside the church, stone-cool and calm,
two euros buy a candle flame.
I've not observed these rites before.
I light the wick and then withdraw
to gaze at flowers beyond the porch.
I feel you're here: our final watch.

St. Paul's Bay, Malta

Small fishing boats, bright greens and blues,
sport on their prow black slitted eyes

of Osiris to ward off jinns;
and yet they give their craft the names

of saints. They're faithful Christian souls
who won't defy the pagan gods.

St. Paul was shipwrecked on these shores.
This is a site for miracles:

he strikes the rock and water flows,
he hurls a viper in the flames.

Our local bus is forced to stop
beside a crowded square. We gawp

at Paul in effigy, serene,
as white-smocked youths await the sign

to lift their load on poles and start
his ride to bless each ancient street.

He's eight-feet tall, in blue and white.
Old ways stay undefeated yet.