Heard him on the Roberts’ radio,
And dissecting him… who else but Motion?
Someone who loved life despite the
Gloom and prediction;
A man who let religion seep, die
Through his fingers:
Palm sweat, the black of his nails,
The soapy rinse of gathered dirt
Entombed under the steel of his
It all ran…
Slowly dousing Holy water
With streams of mudiness,
Mingling, trickling on to the ocean
And running free…
A curious hope that even he
Himself – perhaps – could not see.