Laude

    

Oh, a pilgrim and a traveller, I

who's spirit leaps to, at last, lay eyes,

arms spread wide, under blessed skies of summer;

soul of great faith and the heart

of a lover - whirling dance

of barefoot passion,

lost in time's decaying cushion,

of lichen and winding 

wildflowers.

Where once was power, now

is nought,

but lessons learned and history taught

the Early English way;

the kind that all eats up a day in coffee,

and ice cream,

and toes in the grass,

and the quiet scratching

of a pen, on a page:

votive offerings to the hanging heat haze and 

scent of sun on stone; and skin.

Oh, this sinner's gaze drinks 

you in - and asks for no forgiveness;

for I will be guilty again of largess, where so I love,

with the flighted ease of a belfry dove

as I give,

in equal measure, I take;

the caress of my eye and pious grace 

in tracing curves

and lines.

Stay with me, at the altar; be mine, as sunlight 

dies away,

for you can have no concept, Saint,

among the lengthening shafts of gold,

how softly you encase,

and silently consume me, whole.