Without
Crossing Cook Strait
going home to be
ordained in the
parish of his
father, while seas wished
by and the wind
had its say in the
wires, it came to
him there was no
God. Not that
God was sulking or had
turned His back—that
had happened
often. It was that God
wasn’t there, was
nowhere, a Word
without reference or
object. Who was
God? He was the
Lord. What Lord was
that? The Lord God. Back
and forth it went while
stern lifted, screw
shuddered, stars glowed
and faded. The
universe was losing
weight. It was
then he threw his
Bible into the
sea. He was a
poet and would
write his own. Happiness
was nothing
but not being
sad. It was your
self in this one and
only moment
without grief or
remorse, without God
or a future—sea,
sky, the decks
rolling underfoot.
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