Low Sunday

Poem By Indigo Hawkins

There is a bell tower in France
which seems to shift as much as I do.
In supine whirls of wet on wet, it blurs
heavy, half-formed pirouettes
then clangs in sharp relief, jarring
light and shadow with
its petulant reverberation.

For a split second of sound, I find myself
sulking above a concave crowd of Quasimodos.
The silhouettes are dull, dampened echoes
but for a slow smudge of opium perfume
which gentles the cathedral with shaded murmurs,
and I, smeared, vibrant once again
vibrate with the want of a heady tenderness
and a sanctuary all my own.

Comments about Low Sunday

I agree with sarah! you combine fantastic imagery with a perfect refuge in architectural history, all into a master piece of poem....I know the feeling and what fine sanctuary you paint, very impressed, Tai

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