THE pear-shaped saffron candle-flames
Leap in the velvet-bosomed dark,
The priest speaks gently of God’s claims
To wistful folk with coughs that bark.
Here all is hushed and rabbit-still,
The bull-necked columns, numb with gout
Of countless ages by God’s will
Cast crêpe-like shadows long and stout.
Two narrow slits of coloured glass
Are pierced by spears of mellow light,
The only light allowed to pass
Into this consecrated night.
Behind a candelabra droops
A crucifix of burnished gold,
A ray of dancing sunbeams swoops
Across the cobwebbed arches old.
Here may the sick, the bleeding one
Nurture his wounds and calm his fears.
Here when their joy in life is done
Poor, crumbling men gulp salty tears.
And knotted fingers counting beads,
And prayers half-whispered never cease.
Man slumbers; only heaven heeds,
Here in this hollow womb of peace.