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It's difficult to move in this landscape. Haunted and fragile and tragic, there's no place that is benign. A cursed house, the Greeks might say.
Fingers dipped into holy water, the grain of the cross drawn on skin. 'God speaks in silence,' he said with such certainty, as if he knew all things.
Lift up a stone, find a spider, fat as a grape ... Run, and I will be tucked up in the heel of your shoe, gnawing at the lining.
Inside this darkened church there are whispers ... a clutter of saints who cross themselves in stony silence .. Time and time again, Christ's palms do not heal.
Poems by Libby Hart and Chris Wallace-Crabbe