PEACEFUL WHITSUNTIDE

Chimes at the brink of dusk
alert the temple mice.
The organ player snores
strung across the virgin’s bust.
Reverent fervors barked through tinted glass
The chalice pours its granite wine
Amidst the passion rose our Saviour’s past
Among the flames arched the devil’s spine
to spark the mortal rust.
Crawl from the pebbled shore
to valley’s glacier ice.
Winds froze the penguin’s range
to a polar deep cold thrust.
The virgin glided by with sword and shield
Passing closed doors for saving grace
And as the rodents crept
and as the player slept
her plumage kept the pace relentlessly
Her panting lit up the devil
He spoiled her infinite fast.
The player seized the wine from the valley
The penguin can’t explain
Our Saviour must
A medieval remembrance agitates
the gift of bread and wine
Raising the question of propriety
as a crumbled cross of signs.
The path is narrow to purgatory
We mustn’t commence to flagellate.
The scarlet letter in our society
scoffs the wounds and virgin’s glory.
Disengaging the bitter chains
bounding our souls to quarries.
Gives us hope to tolerate
the blaspheme and the stories.
Chimes at the turn of day
are sounding false advice
the canonizing tore apart a sacred trust.