Stave churches
I believe in the
dark churches,
those that still
stand like pitch-fires in the forests
bearing with them a
scent as of deep-red roses
from times that maybe
possessed more love.
The soot-black
towers I believe in, those with a sun-burnt smell
and ancient
incense in-branded by centuries.
Laudate
pueri Dominum, laudate nomen Domini.
Axes dubbed them
and silver bells rang in them.
Someone carved them
with dreams, gave them wings to roam with
through ages and
mountains. They break like billows around them.
Now they are ships,
with crow’s nests toward the East Indies,
Santa Maria, Pinta
and Niña when the days darkened
near the world’s
end, years away from Andalusia.
Laudate
pueri Dominum, laudate nomen Domini.
Fear everywhere,
even Columbus is frightened now
that mirages seek
to entice them and the wind’s the hissing of serpents.
The stars stare immovably
down with iron eyes of madness,
all the days are
evil, all hope of rescue is gone, we though keep
sailing, sailing,
sailing.
Laudate
pueri Dominum, laudate nomen Domini.
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