I sat surrounded by stone and the tombs of the poets reminding me to search the ruins for the symbols buried under the rubble in the depth of the spirit.
History underfoot and the tremour of the organ playing the notes of ancient songs with voices rising and candles flickering reminding me of heaven - heartbreak's home.
Surrounded by stone - eyes cast down - prayers rising and falling as the light outside weakens into darkness and so many shadowery figures waiting waiting waiting for a benediction or a sign.
But o it's late - inward motion is stilled and who wants to know or remember or examine the failure of love as the incense swirls and swirls round the tomb of a long dead saint?
Made right? Made light under the glare of the camera - and there was Christ dying within me again, and o where was I? Under the tombs of the poets - half sane half mad;
And afterwards in the twilight outside calling to the moon for a turning of the tide and a revelation of how deep is the darkness - how high are the walls - how low is the tide - and how love waits waits waits ...