Far refuges for faith, a landing place
for wild believers and for storm-tossed birds;
a promised sanctuary of air and space;
the haunt of saints, the graveyard of their words.
A smudge of rock, a constant in the tides;
a cliff beyond all climbing, or safe shore;
a resting place for what the world derides;
a prison, or pure freedom; time before
the rattling noise of progress turned our minds;
the spoils of war, or never worth the fight;
the many-named or nameless; all the kinds
of dreams or nightmares; or the clearest light.
Only a few will try the journey - most
will gaze, and doubt, and choose the safer coast.

D. A. Prince

If you have any comments on this poem,  D. A. Prince  would be pleased to hear from you.