Lauds -
A brilliant array
of cloud fractured beams
sifts through a Romanesque opening
in these dew covered hallowed walls,
revealing a spectrum of colour
etched upon a buckling vellum leaf.
The Living Word -
The comforting warmth
of a hood
dispells the anxiety
wrapped in this quivering
quill clutching hand
as it wrestles with
imagination
over the depiction of ideas.
Even the strain of a hunched back,
the toxicity of orpiment,
the frustration of failing vision,
cannot arrest that inexorable passion
to still eternity on a velvet surface.
The silence of the sanctuary -
Long ago, a cross of rags
lay bare on the damp floor
of the cloister,
seeking the future,
by extolling the past.
Those were times -
times that came and went
and came again,
but now are no longer -
When the azure
of the sapphire of the east
dominated humanhood,
and gods played dice with mortals -
When giants walked in our footsteps
forever seeking the shadows
which we avoided -
The glow of ultramarine.
The passing of a vision.
Daily, the hand attempts to trace
the recovery of world lines -
Daytime exemption from the Offices
glasnosts the spirit whose prayer
lies with the symbolic description of
the Ancient One
through lampblack and vermilion.
The silence of the sanctuary -
A spray of floral patterns -
figurative hermeneutics.
Tired,
confined to a simple chair,
our hope lies in the inspiration
that others too, will hope.
Snow Pine, Aug. 1991.