Desecration
In the dry dark cracked open,
gold is mute, gemstones without fire,
air without breath.
The walls crawl
with picture-written magic,
in processions of silence.
Lamplight pierces the gloom
of rooms sealed in lead, beeswax
and the deep indifference of time,
where corpses, babies and a boy,
dried, gutted and embalmed, wrapped
and barded with amulets and prayers,
are still dead.
-Jane Dougherty
The Wombwell Rainbow 