Lost at St. Mary's Gobion

Lost at St. Mary’s Gobion

That day I returned to the silent ones.
I watched St. Mary’s long fingered shadow
Extend no welcome to a curious soul.
Eternity, there marked by stone,
Held the chilled children of below
Who lurked in search of some release.

An uneasy blanket of grave intent,
Lay in wait upon the dying light.
The gathered forgotten in furtive form
Followed one still warm and whole,
Approaching with the gradual gloom
Growing large across this last place.

I came in hope of re-stirring feeling,
Of addressing the source of cyclic dreams.
Mustard lichen on petrified hymns-
Time’s yellow-green tide
Undoing the marks of men-
Invoked universal fear of the final fact.

No sound save mine echoed within.
Thought alarms like strident sirens surged
As non-spatial spectators thronged in frigid waves
To press upon the warm unstrong.
Inside a disembodied whisper, my name
Known by the unknown, the unloved, the bereft.

In the close cold of goose bumps I pushed,
The aged door drew away.
The smell of harvest home in May
Announced the architect of Another Place,
As the living intruded on the dead,
Making sport of a mind in mighty dread.

A North West breath grazed my neck.
I paused before the vestibule,
The cold, silvered slivers of moonlight
Struck the floor’s dark, old slab.
An owl cried before the hunt
And then they gained another one.

On clear nights domed by distant stars,
Unheeded by those who breathe and sleep,
The unsettled rotting are abroad;
Sleepwalking with ethereal gait
On unending paths in places
Once known in blood and flesh.