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Religion (ii)

This small stone chamber on the water is
about the size of it, and this Peter, human,
foolish, fallible. Forget the pile
of antique treasure on the Roman
hill—my religion stables only
the locals: astonished fish, and gypsies, and
two seahorses in love can take
their place amid the drawn out story
where the eyes of the pêcheurs swim upwards
in surprise as one of their number
becomes the catch of heaven. In my religion,
even ghosts of colours shed their light,
earth sun and water filter into lines
that leap skyward with the flying
fish, and as I turn to leave, two
pairs of eyes on bright green stalks
either side of the trompe l’oeil door
will give the older gods a look-in.
I see no higher than these low-
ceilinged angels, whose flaring white
sails spread above the fleet that’s sped
by human voices—the one and only
prayer, safe home, each family makes
before the loved one steps from stone
to blue, and the pêcheurs’ version:
let me walk on the glass roof
of the fishes without falling through.
As the boats come in, a glass
of sangria, blood-red and orange,
is offered on the quay. Succour
enough. The waves can have
and roll and chew over the body.