Poetry

Dust

Floors and ceilings stretch upwards. I am

Falling away from this solidity.

The echoing beckons

God beneath my bones. Somewhere

In the blood. Aching to breathe in

The cold. Peripheries

Numb to match my heart

Slowing to keep pace with eternity.

My edges blur in chapels and churches,

I stand with my back to you.

You read secrets

In the line of my spine

The stiffness of shoulders

And slow steps.

Head cracks on stone in a rush

Of incense.

Still standing but miles away

My mother is carried from this place

Or similar. I am alone

But for all the choirs of angels.

These words you hate about me

In silence now. You do not

Understand the games children play.

Push me to my knees and force

This from me:

My confession of laughter

As tears slide.

You want this? Offer

To set me free,

Chafe warmth into hands

Sight into sightless eyes.

Set me on my feet

Again.

But it is God beneath my bones.

With the slowness of stone

And centuries, formless words

Spoken only

This way for me

In cold churches and chapels

I stand with my back to you

Reading my soul written

On dust sheets waiting

Alice Woodward