If All The Tides Pull Is Not Consoling Poem by Mark Heathcote

The fog is rolling out to sea
On ochre waves of yellow.
Love, it is a shawl, a shadow
Of the blackbird's dream.

And if you care, touch wings-
With death, life and love
And all immortal things
Caress wings with the dove
Who holds a branching olive?
For in his powers willing
Shall you hear singing?
The holy seraphs above

Archangels six-winged
In canticle choir voice
Of a love forever tinged
By the stigmata of a choice

See, the yellow fog is rolling-
Out his blackbirds alighted dream
Love must carry hope in the extreme
If all the tides-pull-is not consoling.