The Sun Is Always Setting

144 THE SUN IS ALWAYS SETTING PAMELA SUTTON except in Canterbury Cathedral where stained glass brands the sun’s voice on my open hands; where touched tombs ring like crossed swords singing; where this Sunday a broken knight’s footsteps scrape metal on marble; except in Canterbury where flocks of white stone flutter; where glass trumpets shape and shatter; except this Sunday, this Easter, in Canterbury where limned books whisper secrets heard only by the dying and their sparrows—the sun is always setting, always spinning and unfolding; always tearing through the paper ocean; except in Canterbury where the stained sun and a pale knight kneel, are beloved, and breathe still. ...