Saint of the Promise

She stands in the warm lapping waters of the lake and watches the boats. So many boats, but they never approach the shore. She watches the island, too. Sometimes there are the bobbing lights of lanterns on its rocks. The clouds seethe above, but there's no breeze here, on the shore.

In the shepherd's hut above the pebble beach, I will find a small shrine - a wooden bowl, with some ancient rings and coins. An apple, or any fruit if an apple can't be found, left to rot on the left, and a necklace of beads on the right. And a cup of lake water, cold as bones, to drink. It's warm here, the air is still even while the clouds roil above like rats in a basket. There's fish in the water, and fruit on the trees. I can catch my breath here. She's the patron saint of the turning tide, the calm before the storm, the perigee and apogee; patron saint of little boats, late afternoons and early evenings, points of no return.