The cannon

                         is just out of range.

Each thunderous estimate hits the waves,

            vibrating thuds pound through each nerve.

Rushing anticipation fills quick responses,

veins full of anxiety, function on the fumes of exhausted expectations,

to out run,

to out bid,

to out smart,

the great descending grey.

Too busy to breathe,

                       too

                       tired

                       to argue.

Answers to this loud inquisition are setting up to prove

the illegitimacy of their own walls of certainty.

Their models

                  never suggested a night

        of waves and squalls.

Unceasing in their quest,

         unanswered by the answer they want to hear.

Refusing to pull into the safe port long held sure by ancient seafarers,

  veiled reason is employed to ignore reason.

Its existence rejected,

                              recycled as intellectual fodder,

                              for far superior moderns.

Faith,

   that jarring inconvenience,

           is bound and silenced.

The self-evident truth still confronting their understanding is thrown overboard.

The old answer, once spoken authoritatively before them,

                                                                               sinks;

a metaphor for the shattering conclusions

soon to be witnessed from shore.

Their rest,

a slow turn to starboard,

yet,

the ship steams on, its Captains shouting

“there is no need for a safe port of call”.

---

RL2016