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At The Aftermath
The stars and sea are calm and cold tonight;
the far horizon, absolutely still.
Like ice cubes in a drink, the bodies lie.
The air is silent, without scream or cry.
Scattered about, only broken debris
remains where once the pride of wealthy men
fell, violated, into unplumbed depths,
where some of nature's freakish creatures dwell.
You think you ought to wish for many things---
for rescue, dry clothes, warmth and nourishment;
for adulation from admiring crowds
when you step into New York's sparkling lights.
But what you cannot help but wish for, most
(for reasons you refuse to understand),
is to have heard, once more, that faith-filled hymn
played by the band before the stern rose up
against the starlit sky like some high tower
erected long ago by long dead men.
Starward
[jlc]
