Stations Of The Heart - Poem by Raymond Friel
Under a canopy of Roman pines
we found his grave: a 'young English poet'.
Slumped on the bench with somnolent cats,
we breathed pine-scented air, slurry with wine.
A tarnished lily leant on the gravestone,
a touch that Oscar Wilde would have loved
here in the 'holiest place in Rome'
where he lay prostrate in utter devotion.
Thousands queued at the doorframes of judgement.
Heat shimmered on the swell of cobblestones.
Under the facade of eternal law,
haunted still by that improvised grace -
aching, lugubrious, borean -
I prayed for a heart fit for the scrutiny.
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