Soul-Search Poem by james watkin

In a dark, doubt-cloying
Impious storms amid
For man's soul I went in search.
And felt set against straight off;
To so phrase it unhid!

Short of waiting, saint-fashion
Its virtue's proof, on high
Up mountains of endeavour
Seen clear enough. On seas, grim.
Dune-blown; holy men try.

And while this much, from artworks
Beauty's conjuring place
For softer impressions shapes
Sears for a tactile knowing
In love'art. Hand's clutched space.