Sonnet on Contemplating the Cross of Mathilde
The darkened space its chosen frame
to guide the light in steadily,
It waits for those who know Its name;
symbol of the Middle Age
when centuries believed, and prayed.
The light upon His gilded head
reveals itself: a strange bouquet
that washes all the coloured gems
and captures in the instant one's domain.
The bundled yellow stems
are gripped in time's un-weakened hand,
the gift of one moment
when life, a falling grain of sand,
enlarges to permit Heaven.
Written by The_Silly_Sibyl
(Tommy or Tuppence)
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