I've spent the last couple of months in Europe and neglected my novel which I hope to return to in a few months during which I hope to achieve some distance from the first draft. Meanwhile, I have started a new novel and written some poetry inspired by my trip. I'd like to share one of the poems with you. It was written as a result of seeing an old woman, cleaning a church in Italy.
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
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
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