Sacred Spaces

Sacred Spaces

Around the cauldron a perimeter persists,
narrow and known to fit witches.
Their temple-sisters fuck, lick and turn
granite tricks up the Khajaraho temples.

In bleaker climes there's nought but
barking crows above St. James (rems. of),
yet God grows ivy over pale green lintels;
poor beacons for converts clinging to the threat
of sinking ship as if crackling paint would save 'em.

No matter each seas' choking extremes,
paper-thin muslin breathes enough thin air
to flutter prayers beyond the utmost tries
of Hubble's telescope where time-before-all-time-began decrees
a past commitment.

Older than Offa's Dyke or Hadrian's Wall and longer than all that
China's
great might have to offer.
Pinned by the sword that daggers the sto,ne
a tenuous foundation sinks in whispered tone,
deeper than Hannibal's crushed vegetation.

Inner sanctum images shimmer
from the oracle's sulphurous annunciation.
A woman caresses the hair of a Saint and confronts
the forehead of a weeping boy with palms of comfort.
A man climbs the tresses of a flying hag to grab
the faint scintilla of the egg's disappointment.

A single cross word straightens as hands find their
partners' across the Druid circles.
Angels stand to applaud fate,
leaving their warmth to follow.

Love makes its human shape
out of a hollow
promise.