Zoe

That she was born to us in
mottled hues is known.
We did not want to have
her sucked out of the womb
into disparate death. But, the
cry came over the mountain,
and it spoke of war and bloodshed.

We had set ourselves to killing
God. We wanted to route Him out;
for, He had shammed us; toyed with
all that we had done that had been
good. We fought Him hard. But He
was everywhere and we lost strength.

The tolls could not be
measured accurately.
How much damage
had we done? How many
limbs had He lost?
Mist settled into our days
and the battling ceased
to the haunting sound of
the loons on the water.

We had only one casualty.
When she left, she took our
souls. She held them like
parcels, or books under
her arms as she swam in
the vast and forever blue sea.

She has sent back pieces of
them. For us. She pulls off
something from here, something
from there, and floats it in on
the surface of the cold
churning waves. It will come
in as a petal, or a moss. It
will come in as a tear, or the
sound of the pipes over the
Highlands.

Was there not some deep
settling as I crossed the path
exposed by the tide, to touch the
heather at the castle ruin. Was there
not a settling of green, and brown, and
purple bells. A settling of pounding
waves and cool mist breezes.

She has not left us. Yet,
she has left us. And, there is
the heather. There is the heather.