torn asunder, plunges under
the black glass sea.
The stave church door jamb
is sealed with pine pitch.
Some of which smears off
onto my fingers as I step through
the threshold. My nose fills
with the scent of burning wax
and centuries of woodsmoke
before my eyes adjust enough
to see the cross on the back wall.
Outsiide, bundled slabs of cod bound
with twine dangle from a crude log
frame drying in the cold salt wind.
It’s a recreation of ancient means
replaced now by the gigantic
oceanic salmon farms off shore
that diligently apply technology
and environmental science because
it’s not right to feed the world
if the sea is stripped to meet
the billion mouths who hunger
for protein in plenteous supply.
Jesus told Simon Peter and Andrew
that if they followed him he would
make them fishers of men.
The nets they cast in Galilee
caught the fishermen who cast
their nets in the far off North Sea.
And they built their churches
with good Norwegian wood.
Staves sealed with pine pitch
that sticks to your fingers if
you touch the threshold as
you enter. A husky black cat
knows where it’s safe to rub and
sprawls on the foundation where
the weak sun warms the stone.
