On the day you were made

On the day you were made

We find an icon shop on the edge of a pilgrimage village
which we are in quite by accident.
It shines cobalt gold out from the axis of a cobbled courtyard,
by a water pump.

We stumble over the step,
stoop low to bend over a glass cabinet
full of virgins and bleeding palm christs.

Your father leans to my earlobe
his lip touching, and whispers
‘Hello Madam, are you in the market for a rose quartz baby Jesus
or perhaps a Joan of Arc bracelet charm.’

We walk the lane to the shrine site
craning to spy through a locked oak gate
reach a sign that asks us for silence.

In the fountain, a scattering of loud hopes
each disc dropped, heavier than defeat.

13 shrine scenes inlaid in brick alters -
Jesus falls for a second time, rope whip at his neck.
Jesus speaks to the women of Nazareth, his robes collecting dust.

The sun is a good school child
the lavender bushes bloom sacrifice
the people walk neat slow surveilance steps.

A man in cinnamon robes held by a white rope
sprints through the cloisters
flick book filling the gaps between the hedge.