I was formed and lost in pools of cobbled stone,
scented with pine needles and damp moss.
I began to yearn for understanding at Mary’s marbled feet,
and found first warmth in the cold alabaster folds of Mary’s rigid cloak.
The echo of my initial thoughts still hang suspended,
on some ancient notes once sighed from sea-green music rooms and the exultant peal of ancient bells.
My childhood secrets still cocoon
in the damp corners of tall archways,
they pull back their tiny, secretive feet to avoid the sallow-yellow sunlight.
Dawn would bring the sound of voices flowing from the chapel,
bowed heads awash with the jewelled pools of colour from the stained glass windows.
– From the forthcoming book: Bag of Skin by Nanieve Groenewald