It sparkles through the stained glass windows,
through the dawn, through angel’s hearts.
It rises through the dark habits of flying nuns
and descends through the gallows of thieves.
It swells in the morning air like a blouse on a clothesline
breathing the crisp aroma of the lingering night,
conveying its nakedness to the virgin sky.
It acknowledges bitter love
and colors it with the waking voices of yawning men.
Like bloomed night spring, it brings drooping love –
washed rich blossoms that rise to pointed pillars.
It remembers the days that steam from heaven.
It drips from the rugged cross to rinse away all the wrong
and echoes through the midnight hills like the green recesses of a song.
It withdraws into the settlement of a song…
* * * * *
Dexter Montrose is a writer who lives in Kingston, Jamaica
