The Collection Plate

Poetry — A snooping traveler uncovers the secrets of a strange church whose members make offerings of sea glass to a mysterious patron.

There is a sodden chapel made from rotting white-washed wood, 
Where townsfolk gather weekly to discuss the greater good. 

People pray in paint-peeled pews to masters few would know, 
Who rule not high and up above but watch from down below. 

Their offerings are shattered glass of brightest blues and green, 
Polished by the surf and sand until they take their sheen. 

And when the bell tolls they disperse to march out on the beach, 
Sifting through the sand for shells and grabbing all in reach. 

They placed them in their ears and stoop or drop on bended knee, 
To listen to the breaking waves and roaring of the sea. 

Their leader waived me over, wrapped in robes of brilliant blue, 
He told me, “Son, now don’t you know: the Deep One yearns for you? 

“You know I’ve seen you watching from the grass atop the dunes, 
Why not cease your spying ways and pay the maid her dues?” 

“The sea glass in your plates?” I ask. He nodded with a smile. 
“I’ll show you where we keep them all; our one anointed pile.” 

He led me through the chapel to a weathered driftwood door, 
That opened to a staircase leading deep beneath the floor.

This secret sanctum smelt of salt—a dampness soaked the air, 
I glimpsed a shadow in the gloom; a presence lurking there. 

By the turquoise lantern light that danced on polished stone, 
He leered over a lectern squinting down upon a tome. 

Before the stranger stood a bowl a dozen feet across, 
Iron wrought and brim with pebbles glazed with emerald gloss. 

These treasures shone with dancing light like sunlight filtered down, 
Through waves above the ocean floor from whence they all were found. 

From the lectern, whispered words rolled off the speaker’s tongue; 
The soggy air stirred ‘round us—now the ritual had begun. 

As a swell upon the sea, the glass rose like a wave, 
And pulled itself into the form of some forgotten maid. 

I recognized her visage from a mural in our town, 
Our founder’s murdered mistress, and a patron of the drowned. 

She leaned beyond the basin’s brim and placed upon my face, 
Her glassy hand, still coarse with sand that made my heartbeat race. 

Between her lips there came a noise, gurgling and wet,
I strained my ears and shook my head—“You aren’t ready yet.” 

My shepherd tugged me backward by the arm from the display,
As—like grains in an hourglass—the maiden fell away. 

“I bid you go collect her tears… awash upon the beach, 
And add unto the Deep One till her word’s within your reach.” 

I felt a strange compulsion as I left the church that day, 
To pluck those tidal treasures that I found along the bay. 

The more I offered up to her, the more I heard her speak, 
Words that carried on the waves in moments I was weak. 

The maiden’s was a siren song, that much to me was clear,
Promising forbidden things to all who dared to hear: 

What truly moves the tide each day; the hand behind our strife; 
The secrets to remain on earth beyond the grip of life. 

The robed man’s meaning earlier, I’ve sadly come to know: 
The maid seduced me from my God to bring me down below. 

I’ve seen the Sigils, now I fear these things can’t be unlearned. 
But you I urge to pass the beach and leave this stone unturned.

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