Doubt
He dreams of a church under water
where green light ripples along the walls,
the altar speckled with fish.
Behind him the cavernous dark,
the crouching men, teeth bared,
the spear flung, now poised in mid-air.
He is the breath and he is the wound.
He has doubted and believed,
his brother’s voice worn thin over time:
“Thomas, why you of all men?”
Because we ran in the hills, he thinks,
because we played in the dust.
He prays for deliverance
from the Indian sun,
borne by the tide of his blood
away beneath a perfect sky
and all his works seem to him now
to be like the waves of the sea.
Simon Lewis has been writing poetry for about 15 years, although most of his efforts have never seen the light of day. He has however had poems published in Acumen, Orbis, Iron, Friction Magazine and Still. There is hope yet.