Bull Hawking


The Skating Minister


(Or an oblivious theologian)

On a day when the loch held ice
Bob did anything but
Nary a dry thread
Had to be shed
as he nobly listed the wind

His angle was such
It might be a joust
With the devil 's own anvil
In storm

I couldn't help think
Of philosophies
Which might never
Feel anymore depth
Than the cut and the hiss
Of the cold, cold ice
and the shivers
Sniffed by
Bob walker's nose
If the sun's Ray burns
a hole in this ice
Will the French
Pull the outstretched leg
Only then will Bob's hat
Dance in the waves
He never gave thought
to before.

Submitted: Wednesday, April 02, 2014
Edited: Thursday, April 03, 2014

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