In fields of green, green grass and weeds and flowers and whispering seeds, well-watered land, he lay with hands in sand and blackened clay. The fibrous strands of roots were prayer-mats swathing holy ground, and branches swayed above, hiding the sun.
Yielding his place, runaway slave, he listened for the waves. His roving eyes gazed for the boat—another long days’ journey, still not safe—then looked at weeds, three-leaved, held in his palm. The clover’s three-pronged hope inspired: a Father’s promise, Son’s protection, Spirit’s strength to cope. Then Patrick strode, one more day's marching left, and sailed for home.