A poem concerning Christ as the Curator of the Art of Creation,
that very Curator that lives in the secret world of the soul.
Angels, Megara, The Christ \\ Creation of the stars, Makrinos Monastery
Bride with countenance so pale,
Peeks as moon through cloud-laced veil.
Blazing sun groom’s complexion,
Shines with red-hot affection.
Shy purple forest expose,
As milk-blue dawn-sky glows.
Virgin’s rosy cheek does blush,
As dusk from flirting night’s hush.
Moist sanct’ry cave dew-weeps drops,
Which quench fine moss carpet’s locks.
Spring-meadow’s mirror does gaze,
Whilst tadpole dance-pupils wave.
Autumn leaves rain-pirouette,
As gold that guilds grass-field’s debt.
Nature’s fog breath lingers still,
Over river-morning’s chill.
Gay-smile lights gleam real bright,
In shadow-sky’s black-caped night.
Mother earth’s quiet is calm,
Since angel-whispers her balm.
Creation sings with glad-cheer,
As harm’nies three which few hear.
Two-natured artist sort-loves,
With risen-flesh satin-gloves.
12-17th March, 2015.