Mary, the mother church,
eking out milk to last the week;
Monday morning, spent, she rests
convalescent, quiet
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.
The sanctuary ring on the door of Holy Trinity, Stratford-upon-Avon. Dating from the 1200s, one who touched the ring could claim 37 days’ sanctuary from the church which now holds Shakespeare’s tomb.
over the water 