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Poetry- Dust
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This stone, white-chiseled, held Him;
This rock, Whereon was never body laid. 
This cavern heavy still with myrrh 
And sweetly-smelling death, enclosed
And chrysalised this Difference by
Night. Wherefore this tomb is virgin. 
And conceived between its iliac, crests
The change that Mary hid before. 
                    By night in darkness in the cloke
                    That there was thick as folds
                    Within unlit recesses of the hips
                    Was force, was life, was death

                    An hour another moment waxen
                    Warmed with stir of whispers from
                    The lung, and moistness wringing
                    From the tongue. The palms that
                    Dropped their diamonds afresh
                    To scintillate upon the stone,
                    And eyes not seeing now, but
                    Only to be seen, which lost a
                    Little light by being shaped of it;
                    The very resurrected Flesh held thus
                    In bondage and preserved from
                    Fission, instant, white, by power
                    And servitude of light. 

Unrecognised; the magnitude of snows
At dawn where never mountains were;
The truth discarnate and entire
Not first discernible or known
Emergent from the wheeling stone
In cataracts of fire; and
Yet in shapliness and height
With locks that stirred in wind
And held their dew-like wings
Of birds which fly throughout 
The night; that she might know her
Risen Lord and kneel in briars at his feet. 

So did he walk uncertainly
As one might walk in fathom
Depth beneath a mirror-laden sea;
So felt the drag of surfaces and stars
Above His bent and drowned head;
So spake, so bade her touch Him not,
New risen from the dead. 

All things made one; the screens
Of bone and tapestries of flesh
Rewoven and assumed in godly shape. 
Alone of love, of love alone that 
With a towering and a tender
Eye looked on her weeping and did
Staunch it instantly. 

                      But haste! My angels yet do light
                      The sepulcher that held my night. 
                      The little fowl of rock and tree
                      Do stir, and presently
                      Will start their foraging and song. 
                      Make haste my Mary, seek out them
                      Who still attend upon the grief
                      And tell the Christus now doth walk
                      In peace and majesty 
                      That they may turn their steps to me. 

Copyright -Gabriel Fielding 1955