Bethsaida
The House of Fishers,
but the Sea lies distant,
fleeing.
All around I see Life –
a place where things grow
and flutter.
I set my head in my hands
and close my eyes, and
the Wind keeps me awake
when a whisper wings in through
the open window of my
unanswered prayer.
God giveth liberally –
in good measure, pressed down, and
running over –
a feast of fat things, of
wine on the lees
well refined.
So my net lies dormant
still
bounded
in a peaceful minefield.
And I’m reminded – and
given hope – that
she’ll build us a temple;
soon everything will be clear.
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