The Few and Far Between

			
Those, the few and far between,
Here seated in obedient time,
Look past one another, towards the man
Who says, with such conviction,
This is the plan,
That here and now, and nowhere else,
We, the few and far between,
Will, for our communion, be seen.
The unblind eye ever fixed
Upon some further far-fixed point
Holds all in view, but some
In the soft shadow of periphery
He says, this man before the lot,
That this, the gathering, sharpens the gaze
That otherwise holds us in a cloud
He speaks in words that, to most,
Mean nothing, not a thing
But whose sounds are sudden and all too sure
And for that reason their meaning obscure
But in good time and like the rest they wait,
Not with hope nor interest, but intent
That penance is a buffet of wind, a torrent of voice
And so they wait with patience, without, they think, choice
The man before the sea
The sea before the man
The waves that stir
The storm that comes
The seeing eye that hides
Sees all, every breath and sigh
Every nod and chewing chin
But eyes, as eyes, do not hear
The din that stirs them all
And so they wait for him to come,
To make his point again
As this is good form
And for his time to end
They stand and stretch and groan
They shuffle towards their shared end
And reaching it they recede
Into their further parts