At Lindisfarne
The stones survive in shapes not guessed
By those that laid them there: sea things -
Coral, kelp, and sponge - or else
The twisted cortex of a brain.
More animal than animate
They rise, red and dry as old blood.
I wish, like them, my relict heart
Were martyred to its final form,
Cast in a wild design to arc
Against the salt and turbulent sky.
© 1998, Louis G. Ceci