The Calling

It could be the way it looms, stately, over you,

Revealed suddenly on the hidden left hand wall,

Of the left hand chapel, made quietly immortal,

For that forgotten French cardinal in Rome.

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Or maybe it’s this desperate space in between,

Where tender strokes dissolve into reality,

And the souls of saints are found– set free

From the soft, half-lit faces of old friends.

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And yet for me, Matthew’s unsure hand is mine,

And the divine light hums today’s same evening tones,

And the tender hand of Christ is the artist’s own,

Reaching out, across mundanity, towards this disciple.

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