Saint Brendan, Becalmed, on the Hellas Sea

And in the midst
Of spiteful North Atlantic seas
Brendan bails his coracle
And prays for a sky that is not
Grey as a pigeon's wing
For an ocean that smiles
Under a butter yellow sun

And, of a sudden
The sky turns a dusty pink
And gentle waves,
Huge but never breaking
Like magnified ripples
Move the leather boat
Up and down
In front of a horizon
That is just too close
Lit by a sun
That is bright but small
Haloed by ice crystals
The air is thin and cold

To the south
The jagged crest of Amphitrite Patera,
Punches through the dusky crust
Like a fist

And tonight God
(If there is a God,
And He is listening)
Will hear praise from two planets

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