Lindisfarne: Beside the Priory in Autumn – Wight

As mouldered soapstone corpses sleep shaped upon sarcophagi,

a waxy moisture varnish glaze

– maybe the damp of cheeky river-bed sadness stream

or furrowed fearing globule sweat of crime recalled –

now long parched, now taut-drawn plucked-like flesh,

but hearty murmurs, or wandering-thought-permitting incants

have seeped the sandy blushing stone, deep-ingrained and hidden.

Yet hints,

like glimpsy cobble edges barely scaping plastered tar

are known,

for dried-up channels course

to be moldavite refreshed, and sin remain.

And in this sacred space I dare

uncover what was left before

though the long watched of the night

saw sheltered view of shaded wight.