And you are here at the end of days
By a head of weeping, golden trees
To take me in hand and lead me along
Each slow avenue of trapped sunshine. 

Home: back to the open, white rooms
Which level with the crow–laden pines
And crawling jasmines open to season
Beneath the Devil–feared Judas tree. 

And you are here at the end of days
With silver hair and hazel–thorn cheeks
To carry me into the park, past daytime
And into evening’s indolent hours. 

And you are here at the end of days
When crows nest and Judas swings,
To exercise your tyrannical hands
And clean my soul of blameless stains.

Imogen Wade studied Literature at the University of Exeter and wrote her dissertation on medieval anchorites. Her main interests lie in poetry, history and mysticism. She currently works as an administrator and volunteers for a crisis line. She lives with her partner in Truro, England.

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