Great sentries of the eastern shore
Who hold their ground against a savage sea,
And defend each vulnerable house on stilts
From the rising tide’s fatal entry.
Their age is shown by grassy tops
That swing and sway in the salty air,
While catching white dust-like granules
And pulling them into their lofty lair.
Perched atop one sandy hill, I
Observed the redundant rise and fall,
And wished to question that stoic guard
As to the origin of his high wall.
I’d like to meet that speck of sand,
(If he be the true artisan)
Who put this whole mound together,
And ask him how it all began.
For it seems to me that love could be a dune
Which allows us to gaze toward eternity,
And protects our hearts with its massive hedge
Built up by small grains of charity.
Fr. Thomas Flynn, LC