|Posted on April 9, 2010 at 11:30 PM|
Eight churches made solemn procession
into the sea at Dunwich,
each claimed in a bridal hour
by storm, by wind, by wave,
betrayed by their own foundations.
Only the amber roses
in the monastery garden
find shelter in the cracked stone
of what remains as reliquary.
No monk’s hand guides them now;
they go their own way,
gifting the pinnacles of air
above cleft earth and sea
with attar of ancient text
and fragments of vagrant air.
There is something to be said
for the texture of erosion,
for the dissolution of earthy things
in sea that, having taken,
returns in roiling tide
as an aquamarine resurrection.
So fisherman toil their nets,
trawling in with pilchard and cod
shards of rose window bearing
bright offerings of multifoil grace,
but in a pattern severed
from the one I thought I knew.
Or rising once more from the surf,
on brief shore there may spill
splinters of the seraph’s sword of flame
guarding the firstborn garden.
I hesitate to take them in my hand
for they have fallen in this place
like open petals of crystal stigmata.
Ambiguous pieces with angelic eyes
that harbour an amethyst shadow
of human compassion,
here are mated with mute mouth
that has no voice to speak
the human accents of my name.