Tales of dark normal, fantastic and macabre
It’s raining in Jerusalem
The sibilant storm welcomed
to this waiting place
silent, without judgement.
Invited to nestle among
tree clotted sheets
knotted at Mataimoana
Raindrops, countless
Coalesce.
Soak shoes off path
haste to reach Saint Josephs.
Where the brass knob sticks
Resists
damp entry to
the storm’s clumsy pash.
A door finally gives in
to desiccated narthex,
Aubert’s consonant shrine.
East wall, the silent chancery
scowls away the ersatz
congregationalist.
To wander the soaked lawn
where carved rills of khaki water
run toward a weed clumped paddock.
Where Mary stands in
pale shelter
blue linen gown
and thick leaved rhododendron
glade. No sky no horizon.
Fleshed bare
right foot.
Toes like writing fingers.
Nails flat and half mooned.
They never wrote a day in their life.
Washed clean again anyway.
Bishop Cullinane planted
pohutakawa
In honour she never wanted
Now stunted. Out of place in these shadows.
Aubergine lichen licks the branches.
Mary stares,
steadfastly low.
Moisture springs
dribbles down
her inside ankle.
Nature’s kenosis.
This is
fortitude.