Poetry

Woeful nights, the pure gold of Mary's faith
Blazoned the brighter for the stillborn dread
That roiled inside like a nether wraith.
On the third day he arose from the dead.
That golden dawn, purled sunbeams rayed the way
God's gleam lights Mary's face: From end to end
Of colours' spectrum.  It was a Sunday
When death and doom were destroyed and the rend,
Wrought by sin, was grafted over with gold.
Sunrise in Mary's heart arrayed splendours
Across the vasts of space.  Now as of old
The Spirit of Wisdom richly renders
The Easter bonanza in Eucharists,
Sun-gilded morrows and scintillant mists.