Sunday Mist

Sunday mist

So rising from a deep sleep
Peopled by grasping images 
Torn from the pages
Of a lurid novel

I rise breathless 
Waiting for a wave
To raise the anchor
And let me drift
Across the shoals 
And sandbanks
Far out to sea

Not a seabird
Tethered by a snare
Flapping against
The slightest breeze
Beating against hope
Twisted against the sky.

Where are the fingers
That would loose the knot
The hand with open palm
To lift me forth?

Within your heart my son
Within your heart
Thinking of another's hurt
And praying for their ease.