30 June 2012
Kneeling, keening softly, pleas
In her own Gethsemane
Tucked away, hardly seen
In streets so tough and cold and mean,
A little plot in St. Mary's lap.
Laying out her heart's fair map,
Tears and prayers that overlap
Running from emotion's tap,
Snow falling, kissing a head of stone
Bowed too in prayer, no longer alone.
A vigil held, granite, skin and bone,
Cold blood and no blood. A sombre tone
As winter lays her weary head
In a garden tucked from pieces shed
Of people drunk, corrupt and sped
With fingers worked and pockets bled,
She finds peace, beside the holy maid,
No longer tired or sick or afraid,
Her sins all gone, atonements made
She sighs, now whole, to rest to be laid.
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Two Ladies • Opuss № I