Wednesday, 29 April 2015


Ringing like bells
Of the empty footsteps
In the cloisters,
The coin in the cash slot
Clangs the tin box.

Cracked bones settle
On the stone cold
Stone slabs of paved floor.
Remembered prayers
Recite themselves
For the long departed souls
Who have forgotten them.

The singing psalms
Dance the flames with their breath
Weaving back and across
In their lighted shape
Of pointed hands to heaven.

For the candles there is company
In the heat and light,
Of warming breath and hope,
Faithful kisses caressing
And sparking out of the dark.

But the pilgrims soon depart.
And darkness creeps
With each and every smoky streamer.

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