When Faith walks, I hear the passing years;
The tick of heels on flagstone floor,
As she takes me gently by the hand
And leads me through the dunmow door,
Into a draped and darkened room,
Where all I breathe is her perfume.
The bitter reek of stale incense
Fills the deconsecrated air,
As she lifts her veil to free her face
And scatter spiders from her hair;
While saints look down from dusty panes,
I make love to what remains.
When Hope returns and finds me gone,
But for this enigmatic note,
She speaks my name as a summoning
And touches the locket at her throat,
Where my face is pressed to hers inside;
My gilt encrusted former bride.
Though precious metal does not rust,
A cameo plays a role more brief
And what glitters is mere ornament,
To attract attentions from a thief;
Such stolen moments cannot endure,
When the links that join us are not pure.
And when Charity grips my other hand,
To demand attention, here and now,
I am distracted by cleavage and a flash of thigh
Through her tattered dress and I forget her vow;
That no man can touch her unless he pays
To keep her family all their days.
Although she drags me out of darkness
And sets me barefoot on this road,
I am bereft at being rescued,
For I prefer my previous abode,
In which the only truth is what I believe;
Where nothing can be lost, there is nothing to grieve.
