A good Friday
I caught a moment of truth
There in that old church
Sitting remotely gazing
At the old carved gold
Of that quiet place.
My mind broke free
Lifted and fluttered trapped
Jerky and sorrowful, under
The fiddling fluted baroque
Of the Renaissance ceiling.
The purple of childhood’s
Dolorous Church
The stations of agony
Of English Gothic
The anticipation of decorous Easter
Delicious costly scent of
Sculpted French chocolate.
Out again into the sunlight
On the steps of the old Convent Church
I pause in that beauty
The bright Portuguese light
The town below me
And above the trees
The shimmering blue air
Of the distant ocean.
