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.
like glimpsy cobble edges barely scaping plastered tar
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.
Used by permission of the author.