The Wedding Cup

The chapel gardens open at twilight
and secretive herbs growing close to the ground
offer no flurry of blooms, only the awkward cascade
of their stems and ragged leaves
before that expansive and eloquent smell.

Like the story there are two springs in the garden.
A soul who drinks from the sweetest fountain
will enter fields of grey blossom and forget.

The church is small and white
with a path trodden up to the door.
The altar is a low table where the faces turn in.
As I wait alone I notice little tin plates
displaying a leg or an ear.
They are the deposits of a prayer
...