POEM OF THE WEEK

 

A Still Grace

By Angela Turner

 

What high force

Calls me to such disaster?

When the old, familiar

Musk of fright

Lays thick upon

The looters

With their whisky breath

Brazen as a siren

Upend

Upend

All but the shafts of sunlight

Measured out against the cluttered floor.

 

A still grace

 

Unmoved by the

Riotous collision

Of particulate matters.

Was it to still graces

That I have been summoned?

Called by the ancient hiss

Of a seal

Circuitous and flaming?

Searing past this

Melting flesh

To the clanging, metallic

Surge of the soul

Awakening the fierce fury

Of a learned hope.

Fire has answered fire

And is known

By the still grace

In the shafts of faith

Standing sentinel upon

The cluttered floor.