Without common power, striven paradise
lies forever beyond. Illuminated snaking
dust: speckled, shafted by that stained glass
in depiction of Saint Veronica's mercy:
he finds her there, among the musted clothes,
in rainbow remembrance of present plight.
The dripping rain, in guttered timpani,
beats the slaver's drum for the roof appeal.
Sack after black sack of rags to sift
battered hats, heel-bitten shoes; all of skin.
They drink tea, from almond cups, and she,
stretching from her labour, observes
the differing racks; the cheaply stitched
jostle dense, whilst the tailored leisure.