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in collection I heard my lady weepe ,

a study of English lutenists of the Golden Age,

commissioned by The Tern Press in 2007,

www.ternpress.co.uk, and in paperback



from I heard my lady weepe


It is not light or dark that hides me, trapped

in this loose frame of flesh.


Nobody looks my way or touches me.

Why should I grieve at that?


Noli me tangere, he said, the Christ,

and the sweet Magdalene drew back her hand.


He wrote himself in air a cloud that breaks

in showers, drop by drop,


his rain touching your cheek.  You thought it was

my music?


Splashes of grace falling from storms of what?

They say he died for love.


Eleanor Cooke


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