Shrine for St. Dunstan

Shrine For St. Dunstan
 
 
Bones move into dust,
            hidden in shadow
            near the holy water.
 
The jewel of the ring glitters
            in the flame.
 
The image of the golden hair,
            the strong jaw,
            flashes in between
            the flicks of fire;
 
Imaginary hounds
            move with intensity,
            and the stone walls tower
            between the darkness and
            the light.
 
Somewhere, deep in the cinders,
            the face of the bride
            sheds tears;
            the face of the patroness
            forms a kiss across time.
 
A hand moves ink across parchment
            to create a shrine –
            a memory of a memory
            of a dream.

Sometimes, it feels like my life is in cinders.  Ashes on ashes of the person I used to be, the things I used to do, the spirit I was.  Months later, I am finding my way back to myself.  One small act at a time.  One small triumph at a time. Fending off the world is a tiring task. It weighs heavy on one's soul. One ferocious labor after another until, like Dunstan or Arthur, I find my self "mortally: wounded" and seeking sanctuary.