Irregular sepulcher

A stone reef sleeps in fetal pose,
obscured by shadows from the East,
packed down in soil by pilgrims’ feet,
centuries of wisdom now disposed.

We lack a point of reference, a plumb,
a line to demarcate each sacred grave.
No Roman pillars buttress up the cave;
no faithful sailors tack a blissful rhumb.

Their bones long moved to the ossuary,
flesh dispatched, they trade their tools
for cash from their descendants (demanding rules,
expecting epic and symmetry,

not organic shapes and careless tides)
yet do not hide a messiness divine –
as if God would not bless untidy lines
for those that made a simple cross their guide.

This sepulcher reminds me of the living.
One always sees a coffin pointing straight,
a corpse’s limbs and tie and flag just right.
Anything else, no doubt, would cause misgivings.

(This poem was inspired by a visit to the subterranean church in Aubeterre sur Dronne, France.)
http://www.aubeterresurdronne.com/en/a_voir/eglise-souterraine/