Henry Adams at Mont Saint Michel

Six-hundred feet beneath his sword, the sea
retreats, returns. This filthy modern tide
grows back two heads for each one lost: might flee
but can not die. Silent, Michael abides.
Yet how much longer can he keep his watch?
Beneath his nose strange pilgrims go, one eye
upon the clock. They grouse, “This walkway’s botched!
Why build with stone and on a hill so high?”
Silent. Michael abides. Ten centuries
he has withstood assaults and storms to stand
and not to yield. But he could not know these
new men, who won’t be saved and can’t be damned.
We Kodak-snapping tourists, once we diced
for clothes—for sport—beneath the dying Christ.

*Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons