The road from the quays at Soufriere climbed quickly uphill along a ribbon that had been casually tossed on the cliffside and that clung to it as if the thorn trees had gripped it tight against even the wild impossible wind.
[…]I watched until all that I loveFolded in cloud; I watched the shallow greenThat broke in places where there should be reef,The silver glinting on the fuselage, each mileDividing us and all fidelity strainedTill space would snap it. Then, after a whileI thought of nothing; nothing, I prayed, would change;When we set down at Seawell it had rained.
[…]Why blame the faith you have lost? Heaven remainsWhere it is, in the hearts of these people,In the womb of their church, though the rain’sShroud is drawn across its steeple.
[…]The silenceis stronger than thunder,we are stricken dumb and deepas the animals who never utter loveas we do, exceptit becomes unutterableand must be said,in a whimper,in tears,in the drizzle that comes to our eyesnot uttering the loved thing’s name,the silence of the dead,the silence of the deepest buried love isthe one silence,and whether we bear it for beast,for child, for woman, or friend,it is the one love, it is the same,and it is blestdeepest by lossit is blest, it is blest.