Clare Hornsby



home: poetry

 

In the Santa Maria Novella of my mind

It’s the sign on the street
That marks a step on the stair
The voice of a soldier
The carrying away of a child.

It’s the man at the door
Too poor to come in
I let myself dream, I watch him go
Out through the cypress dust cemetery,
He too fast and me too slow.

It’s you, pacing out the cloister
The measure of a garden,
“Just right, this size is perfect”.
The grey warm peace of the place
Where saints passed their time.

It’s the Trinity, the Holy Trinity
In pale plaster colours on the wall
Where is the Spirit, I can't find it -
“It's the connection,
The place the Father and Son touch” you said.

Somehow I missed the meaning of these things
I stepped over their significance
As over a knot in the marble
I was thinking of myself
Feeling the weight within me of my mind.

These piercing truths of our existence
Are here and ask to be acknowledged.
A fire within a burst of fire is
A vital appropriation of the infinite.