the sepia fog begins to move through gothic ruins
and ten monks walk in unison,
a procession of ink silhouettes carrying
a coffin into the abandoned abbey.
The one remaining wall tells me it wants to face west
toward dry German snow, while the shadows creep
quietly under the glow of winter solstice.
The skeletal iron shapes of windows draw an outline
showing me the pattern of a rose window on the ground,
the glass gone with cannon fire. Only a crescent moon shines
on the crippled gravestones nobody wants to visit
and slowly the paint moves, slides around the canvas,
blurring the forms of faith and landscape of this hidden place.
and ten monks walk in unison,
a procession of ink silhouettes carrying
a coffin into the abandoned abbey.
The one remaining wall tells me it wants to face west
toward dry German snow, while the shadows creep
quietly under the glow of winter solstice.
The skeletal iron shapes of windows draw an outline
showing me the pattern of a rose window on the ground,
the glass gone with cannon fire. Only a crescent moon shines
on the crippled gravestones nobody wants to visit
and slowly the paint moves, slides around the canvas,
blurring the forms of faith and landscape of this hidden place.
©Shannon Horlor
No comments:
Post a Comment