Reading:
Miracle at Bolsena We carried chairs from the kiosk Down onto the beach to watch The sun set behind mountains At the other side of the lake. It was a skimpy strand No tides to make a proper one, Just a few feet of silver sand All the finer wind-blown. Off-season we were quite alone. She with her Campari, me with my Negroni, Side-by-side and holding hands, Fifty years of marriage locked us In a silent gravity, space-time warped By love, that most magical of Einstein’s geometric dimples in reality. Imperceptibly at first but quickening In a final spurt, as if it felt the horizon Was some sort of finishing line, The sun sank behind Montefiaschone. What made this quotidian light-show Miraculous, were colours ever-changing, As yellow turned to orange then to crimson. The undersides of puffy clouds in turn Vibrated with a faint magenta glow Congealing later to a dark-grey violet. For fitting metaphor, one might say ‘Blood dyed the evening sky’. Yet Nothing seeping from that Sacred Host Could outshine this in radiant glory. ‘Marvel’ would be a better word for it - Miracles don’t happen every day - But it was pretty spectacular anyway.
Peter Lloyd Jones 