Mary, the mother church,
eking out milk to last the week;
Monday morning, spent, she rests
A void of another kind,
Shakespeare’s tomb hastily built into Babel;
who sees the stranger seeking sanctuary
from its old iron face?
St Teilo’s silence echoes another place
where love was consecrated,
death given its due;
the air shivers, ghost-breath cold.
And at last the sea, an empty horizon never failing
its salt-water promise of salvation.