The Epitaphios canopy
is edged with cone-shaped,
small brass bells,
but when it's carried skilfully
their tremor is inaudible.
The censer-bells of priests
reprise the bells of goats and sheep,
gentle notes on metal that evoke
the tones of childhood cattle.
Petals drizzle on the congregation,
bruising underfoot, releasing essences
of sundered flowers. People sitting
in the pews Antipodean Orthodoxy
furnishes against the general rule
pluck soft shards from their hair,
while I, if thus adorned, would leave
them there, a heavenly corona.
I don't want this liturgy to end,
to wait another year.
No one stands between me
and the Myrtidiotissa. By happen-
stance, her golden aura finds me
through the open door.
I remember that your birthday
fell upon her special day.
Will you be in an island
church this night? Will you
remember me?
Kali Anastasi
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2009
Свидетельство о публикации №109041901489
Свидетельство о публикации №109041901489
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