As the Last Birdsong Fades
Heart gladdened with wine, I caress
a sanctuary of stone, its frieze half-hidden in shadow.
See Mary carved from that stone, her child cruciform in her lap.
There also his suppliant saints and apostles press,
barely eroded these many years:
here’s a garden of stone and green trees, growing
shadow, coming night, beyond time to find at last my way home
as the last birdsong fades.
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