Luke Whitington: Domes and frescoes

Domes and frescoes

Across the wind-blown hill flanks
Only green commotion
Overhead a dome of blue emptiness
A real mountain climbs through distant rain
Or surfaces through plumes of seducing mist

The sky, endless and innocent
Of faith, art, conquest, loss or domain
Has no spires, no towers
No domes to claim confirmation.

There is no heaven depicted, frescoed
Over what is really, visibly, Heaven
A different light without artifice
Clouds without cupids, nymphs or captions glide

Sailing in, sailing out
Without incense or prayer
Not even a swinging, smoking thurible
Nor a tear to fall reluctantly down
A saint’s wooden cheek

Only the opera of dusk and dawn
The concerto of bright beginning and softening end
Only the threads and tatters of paused winds, reddening;
Arabesques scrawled aloud in the sunset.

Luke Whitington