by Elizabeth Tervo
Under sun, the golden crosses shine
When the sun bursts through the rapid clouds
Gleaming in sympathy. They shine out
From the long puddles in the prematurely wrinkled parking lot
That lot built to hold five hundred cars.
St Elias goes dark under grey clouds
The crosses rusty brass, the old-gold domes patchy with silt
From the endless rains
Forbidding, until the cloud sails by and she shines out again.
The Ark rises each Sunday and settles down again
Furling its wings like a duck among the puddles
Nobody is parked in the lot
Except Jabril’s car: it’s early morning, a weekday.
He’s preparing for the next Liturgy, cleaning, tidying,
In the altar.
All the same to him the clouds sailing by
The sunbeams gleam and fail
From the windows supporting the central dome
He does not bother with the electric lights
He is in the Ark, sailing, himself
On his way to where the sun fails, the moon fails
And the clouds fall into silence