Runcible Spoon

poetry and prose webzine

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At the end of the green damp lane out of the village,

in the rounded head of a cross, there’s a granite man,

carved in saint-patient days. There’s a bright sharp crystal

at his heart. Slow centuries of lichen

have piebalded him. Across the fields, brown cows

are mourning as if their god had died. I’m primed

now for images. A worn grey saw-stub,

a lump at the base of the trunk of a tall pine,

leaps out to my unfaithed eye as a faultless Mary.