memoirs, art and fragments by Thomas Milner

A good Friday

I caught a moment of truth

There in that old church

Sitting remotely gazing

At the old carved gold

Of that quiet place.


My mind broke free

Lifted and fluttered trapped

Jerky and sorrowful, under

The fiddling fluted baroque

Of the Renaissance ceiling.


The purple of childhood’s

Dolorous Church

The stations of agony

Of English Gothic

The anticipation of decorous Easter

Delicious costly scent of

Sculpted French chocolate.


Out again into the sunlight

On the steps of the old Convent Church

I pause in that beauty

The bright Portuguese light

The town below me

And above the trees

The shimmering blue air

Of the distant ocean.


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