Francis

on reading a poetic biography by Ann Wroe

It is not words but amethyst,
a trove of meditative stone,
a cornucopia in the mist.

Words tag along, convey the gist;
this has a beauty of its own.
It is not words but amethyst,

a gleam of song. A harmonist
has left behind, herself unknown,
a cornucopia in the mist.

Light tracings separately exist –
till suddenly a shape is thrown.
It is not words but amethyst.

The old, the new, a timeless twist . . .
at last a piercing love is shown,
a cornucopia in the mist.

There was a saint the stars had kissed –
we see the fire along the bone.
It is not words but amethyst,
a cornucopia in the mist.