— Nick Butterfield

The Flying Nun Touched Ground

In socks and shoes he headed for the beach.

There she nestled in his hands weary from her flight.

The ocean, her breath spoke of tiny holes to hide in.

On his finger wore a ring.

Their marriage, simply rose pedals scattered on some shore,

disappeared by morning.  

Only dew drops, like tears remained.

There, the tiny crabs hid inside their bubbly homes,

seen only between wistful waves and gentle thunder.

Inside, a crown to share, a carpet made of roses, and a

habbit soon forgot.