Becket

I like this poem. The more I read it, the more it appeals to me. There is an image that goes with it, if you want to look at the original.

The Sky Over Archbishop Becket

all flesh is as light
two thousand golden apples
are a memory

a cross encircled
did the unremembered laugh
celtic to the last?

grey flowers display
masons bow beneath the sky
that their hammers wrought

shield ringed with fire
eight gates pierced with light above
what rough beast was made?

pilgrimage ends here
the century’s weary hands
play a nave of swords

old stone holds old air
a thousand years of sainthood
stained glass, empty vaults

shielded from the sky
this sanctity will survive
the meaning of god

Then I thought of Wolfberry. Madame Wolff, you have gained your crown this day; my prayers go out to you.