The Passion

    
Here's a long story,
a glorious rapture descending - 
vines creeping, into veins and blood,
foliate bosses and hood-moulds 
crenellating,
the doors to Narnia's portal. They left my finger
hopelessly trailing,
over,
time
immortal. The long shadow of a broken sceptre,
ground beneath:
the bone collector, shaft of dust,
through long windows thrown
lighting wildflowers impossibly grown from the
ruins of matins,
prime and nones, 
a mystery extant speaks of all
that is gone in the wind,
the rain:
in the unholy fires,
the crashing down of celestories and 
spires, and I wandered amongst them; their gritty texture,
whispering of lauds,
compline and vespers, a scratch in
the buttress, striking the time: eyes to heaven and glitter
falls down my spine, still, and the doves that call,
from the remnant of a crossing,
emboss my heart and spread wings in my chest - 
where once the vestments 
were plain,
I see a myriad of colours overlain:
as a pale hand in a silken glove.
And it was here, I recall, my head began to spin with it.
It was here
I fell 
in love.