John Scully (19th October 1947 / London)

I sailed, never to see England again
to an island as yet unknown,
where sin may abound but grace aplenty.
I scoured the broken charts of island hope
and followed my sense of salted freedom.
Then one misty morning, distant far,
there it stood, granite-like, monastic in the sea.
Something awesome, wonderful happened
my boat broke upon the arid, rocky shore,
At last I was there.
With a splashing of salted waves I waded out
leaving the maternal womb of my broken boat.
I knelt and crossed the sand
for the peace and love of other men.
My 'stigmata' was my sudden loneliness,
as my wooden broken boat floated far
into that damp and foggy darkness.
I was a self-made Trappist, Dominican, a lonely holy man
I was me, on a granite block within the sea, somewhere with my God.
What a very mysterious, suffering way to be.