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Faces From Afar |
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Where we least expected, a terra cotta by the chancel door, the hero St. George. Beyond, boots and a bag with railway stickers, nonliturgical, musty--we waited, nobody came. |
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We looked for the clergyman, a well-traveled size twelve. Around the tea hour, rainy Cornwall; as pamphlets by the main door informed, stained glass was the church's pride. |
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Vivid as the comics, the patron, St. Neot, lit one stone wall. He had fish that renewed when eaten, prayed years in a well, and harnessed a stag and rabbit to harrow his field. Damp took a toll, |
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but guildwork from the 16th century shone clear. Other windows glowed with tradition: Noah laded the ark with wine, doffed his cap to God, and got sloshed to the gills. |
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One window held St. George, more expected here: torn by iron rakes, beheaded by Gauls, defeated, given life once more. We watched a wasp along the ledge hunt food for its larvae. |
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Mortal to spiders, the wasp cocked and preened. Its aim is not to kill, but mesmerize: will actually dance before a web. A tiny pepsis can stop a tarantula. |
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What of the host's quiescence? Alive but numb, it waits to feed what eggs will hatch within. Briefly, rain stopped. We could nearly hear the wings. |
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Our haven for an hour, a jewel in overcast. On the walk outside we turned; you held my arm, a fragile gesture, under centuries of stone, whose glass seemed stronger than we. |
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I thought of the clergyman's gear, his homely, civil tea, while rain began, as often that summer. I remember the late sky, put together from all dusks that ever were. We are now apart. But these things stay with me. |
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