Paul In Tarsus Poem by robert dickerson

Much was clear, much unclear.
Clearly he was safer here
where even now his heart would skip
with every unexpected rip
of tent-cloth behind him, after one whole year.

Where even the dark above his head
seemed a creaking cover lid
of woven rushes, through the night
dropping him to safety, and to flight,
flight, flight, as he lay awake in the comfortable bed.

So then why, beside the musical fountains
amidst the placid mountains
of this rather attractive provincial town
that could soften any frown
with gifts of pomegranates, oranges and plantains,

as he sat in the dusky square,
did Peace increasingly appear
though lovely, composed of fluttering moths,
to breathe into his ear 'I am your Death'?
oh endless nervousness and hurryings through dinner.

Somewhere a bird was singing loud
as if to wake the errant world
crying 'Saul, Saul, Saul!
The tide of his eye went dead as a sea-
he saw voyages ahead. Storms. Sweat and blood.