A Cretan Shrine

By road, by market,

Where the olive grows,

The dolls-house shrine

Makes weak faith firmer,

Glistening white.

 

Yet tis the dark it

Hoards; and, homely, knows

Things fade when shines

The untempered summer

Sun too bright.

 

With room to park, it

Focuses. All know

Its mysteries and sign

The cross, and murmur

In their plight;

 

Touching the ark that

Covenants to those

Who bread and wine

Revere, succour

In the night.

 

Where life is stark, its

Symbols and those

Painted saints combine,

Wisely, to colour

Faith with – just a little –

Sight.

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