Dream

I had a dream last night:
four men on a small island
lapped by a frozen sea
in long, black coats
no hair on their heads
their sins all forgotten
mumbling to the wind:
We are not a protest movement.
We are not a debating society.
We are nothing – like the wind
which whistles through these stones
coming from a far place,
a white tundra gleaming in late sun,
and we offer you nothing
which is the safest of options;
look at it spread on our opened palms
as if it were food for the ravenous gulls.