The Church in Siguenza

Light is grafted pore by pore,
tingeing the inside walls,
staining the darkness, lighting it up.
Like a porous tongue,
it leaves a tide of rust and blue,
cloaking the brilliance
in a wrapping of tinted dust.
Cascade of water and of blood,
the pulpit the placenta,
a stone hollow of love,
where the child who'll be born is growing.
Bloodlines endure the storm,
the depths enriched,
stone after stone,
a source in the dark.
Down towards indigos, garnets,
past lecterns, past pews to the altar,
the soft fire of stained glass.
My son and I see it with our hands.
Gradually, life takes life.