The Cloud of Unknowinng

The Cloud of Unknowing

it’s never quiet in the harbor

              simply different degrees of stillness

even midst a calm faint breeze

              distant sounds roll over the liquid space

              and miniscule waves lap along shore’s edge

the hum of an unseen, single engine plane

             the occasional calls and cackles of sea fowl

but all the muffled, auditory data is eclipsed

             by the vast, broad panorama before me 

sitting on the edge of this island

             i gaze at the wide spectrum of an earthly sphere

             a locale that i’ve called home

far to my right periphery – just past the island’s point

             lies a landmark of the Civil War

            alone in the harbor, flags flying, tourists embarking

moving counter clockwise, barrier islands, colonial fortress

           lighthouse, grand shore-line homes

                         an abandoned trolley bridge and the Star of the Sea

beyond, at sky’s verge – drawbridge, causeway, marsh

          the faint image further on – a newer connector

and there, straight across the bay, the pleasant land

    (although i’d like someone to tell me, where’s the mount) 

marinas, maritime museums and water towers

    whilst reaching across from suburbs to city

                    the grand new cable-stayed link

     named for a Huguenot descendant,  local legend

to my extreme left more connectors-bridges-water

      a funky round hotel, countless boat masts

                  a few sails unfurled, even a sailing team or two

and rising between the bridges, between the rivers

         the proud, resilient holy city

sunlight gleaming on parked cars lining

                                           the water’s edge boulevard

modern edifices on the west side of the peninsula

         that i know to be the medical district

cranes, docks, ante-bellum homes & everywhere steeples

i’ve been called a son of this city

        a prophetic voice that needs to be heard

                                   i don’t know what that means

not sure that i’ve found my place or my voice

       and yet i’ve been called back, as much “home”

       no, more home than any other earthly domain

and here i sit, gnats starting to nip

            as any wind fades, the sun sets behind me

            while I pray, ponder and dream

what next, Lord? rest and waiting challenge this doer

i pause – pan the vista once more before leaving

     all around a façade of timelessness

     but above it, through it, under it, flows the eternal

once again, midst a veil of uncertainty

                                  i surrender my dust into His hands

“The unfolding of Your words gives light;

                              It gives understanding to the simple.”

 mark d. cooke, 2-20-13 
                    sitting at Sunrise Park on James Island