The 12 Apostles:

Twelve in silence stand,

eight under the sun

and four in shadow.

Resolute, they look to the sea

no matter the time of day

the season at hand

the lunar or solar cycle

the stars that spin above.

Twelves sentinels to guard,

eight under the sun

and four in shadow.

In meetings between sea and apostle,

foam tossed high as, like wild Picts

against Hadrian’s wall,

waves crash against each of them, they

in prayer, contemplate the fury.

With sand, stone, ragged grass,

and steadfast silence in the ferocity of sound

they defend the indefensible

against salt, wind and ocean.

Twelve apostles silent all day,

eight under the sun

and four in shadow.

when I was a boy I stood upon one,

the arch to cross still existed then

and, in the wild wind and sea spray battle,

grasped that the world would always be

greater than reality.

Now sixty and only eight remain,

four have surrendered grain by grain

into the great journey of sea and sand

to find themselves never whole again

but particles of a new land

in a distant horizon

unnamed until mangroves seal the fragments into soil.

In memory twelve remain, silent, frozen

in a time before language and dance

when the world, lately formed,

hung itself out to dry

like the wings of a newly birthed dragonfly.

They guard still, the twelve;

eight under the sun

and four in shadow.