Niall (ii)

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You dropped dead you sod
and all but took with
you my shred of faith.
God knew your facade
was just that – the front
for sad cynic’s soft-
hard heart. No fool, the
brunt of no one’s joke,
you knew the spell-cast
friend would contrive to
choke the bond. You took
it well and made it
good. And now your gilt
look scans silent church,
cool and still in old
Byzance. The sad years’
lurch takes me now to
the hope-soaked sacred
place that found you out –
no front there – you hold
out to all the church
that healed the heart that
failed only once – and lives.

Rupert Moreton

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