Feast of St. Athanasius

HIS
BREVIARY
BATTERED

In the fifth,
Two thousand six,
Melts the wax
Of candle sticks.

May moon, full,
Begins to wane,
Shadows race
Across the plain

Reaching gulfs,
The ocean tides
Break on beach
Where pride presides.

Cassocked in,
The thickest fog,
Plodding cross
The marshy bog.

Maddening moons,
Through the fire ---
Near the depths
He wends on higher.

Many years,
Breviary tattered,
Deep in mists
His strength unshattered.

'Gainst black storms
Wet linen heavy,
Soul after soul...
Gives his life for each bevy.

And when he is called,
Because souls really mattered,
He will enter Reward...
With his breviary battered