Thursday, 7 July 2011

Nightly Devotions / The Pieta


Sweet Guinevere joined an exam class;
they were Prepping that night for High Mass.
She vowed love’s ‘Hail Mary’,
devotion was scary.
Her glance-a-lot tutor let her Pass.

THE PIETA (Sonnet)  Wendy Webb

It glows with light on shining marbled stone,
lies aside St Peter’s nave, a lofty wreath.
It’s raised on high, up to the highest throne,
beyond such sorrow women can conceive.

He’s fallen like the morning star, full-blown,
draped round his mother’s knees in freak relief.
Flesh pale and still, bleached deathly to the bone.
No humans touch his hem from far beneath.

She’s glorious in suffering’s belief,
for ‘Touch Me Not’ folds round her terrible tone;
raw as the ages, screened to sanction grief,
impermeable to rage where breath has gone.

They pause to contemplate, their feeling brief,
then leave impassioned piety alone.

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