In every tiny church
a tattered mat,
an old pair of plastic
or rush-seated chairs
placed neat and straight
before the vestiges of murals.
*
We have climbed the hill
and visited fourteen,
each with its whitewashed apse
each nearer to an empty
larder than the last,
preserving on a shelf,
beside a shallow dish of oil,
thin candles for a prayer,
a water bottle much re-used
and ironed red plaid
cloth on which a faded holy image rests.
*
Outside a nearly hidden door
where fig-leaves droop
old trees are proffering
black fruit.
Fallen almonds
still in thick grey coats
dry in the dust.
*
Silver-gilt, on thorny stalks,
tall brittle weeds,
brass umbrels
and a fence of blood-brown sorrel
spikes thrust from the verge
lances and arrows of desire.
*
A pilgrim’s button, broken
mother of pearl, seeks to be blessed,
set down to dress a shrine.
Compelled, palms cupped,
we gather up and ferry
into cool stone rooms
simplest of gifts, the offerings.