The Sweeper
Mourning-dress; object long forgotten,
shrouding bone-brittle.
Plying her broom
over stone-inches, stone-centuries,
the woman in black.
Geometry of arch and pillar,
dazzled by jewel-beams
moans, as slow fingers effect
the sensuous crumbling of granite
and living bone.
The long aisle swept
she turns toward the sanctuary
where candle-light and eye-light meet
and time in sudden parody
sweeps it all away.
Tess Evans 2013