The Shroud of Turin

Haunted by a miracle: a blazing light
from resurrection had made a holy photo possible.
But then came carbon dating, blowing the miracle:
that grainy cutting pasted in the Bible was not
what it seemed. The sharp shine of grass

over the smell of rotting earth grew into a stubble,
primroses turned ghost-faces to the sun
along the path where lopsided gravestones
screamed bias. Their shadows
stretching longer than a brief mystery.

Birdsong bled the certainty of winter.
Curled up tight and wound in linen like a writhing bud,
I couldn’t sleep that night, all night half dreaming
of monks who’d marvel at the image I had seared
when fear had burned my arteries to light.

(c) Esmond Jones 2001

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