From the Isles of Waiting (2023)

07. Turning Slow

A thread was turning, turning slow

A clown wept at the death of his sin on burning coal

Cried out, “Nothing here ever stays the same.”

As I turned to walk back the way I came.

A barge was floating, floating slow

Burning coal for the sainthood of a martyr out in the snow

Carrying St Augustine through the shadows of the valley of death

I saw in him eyes that shone, of one who lived as he’d confessed

And the statesmen were whispering whispering slow

With quiet furtive hands refusing the crying down below

And history spoke, “The thread may turn as it always has done.”

Repeating its words to a congregation of one.

Many have died since and many have been born

And many shall see the day when a grey-hooded storm

Breaks down our pillars in its cruel merciless gust

And many will see the day when tall trees grow from the dust

And the thread keeps turning turning slow

As I wonder if the red hooks of time will surely show

That a hoot owl’s songs from its dark lonesome hollow

Could ever match the cold cries of a coyote in the snow