At St Francis’ Tomb Poem by Midifo Yearns

Fertile tomb in solid rock
from which the spirit draws its joy
and dancing feet in solemn awe
bring pilgrims to their knees
on floor, made holy by simple love.

Francis speaks in silent words
so many years beyond his death
and stillness brings to hearts and
minds, a fresh dose of the sacred
breath, that breathes still in holy love.

Breathless there, I sit and wait
a little fish before the bait
that lures, confuses and ignites
indescribable pangs of longing
for more, of life, of peace, of love.

And there I wait - alone with others
strangers all, yet somehow brothers
and sisters, in the quest to know
the secret that ignites and sets fire to life.
In fragile peace, we wait for love.