Strangely, it was the light,
Beaming in with summer force
Through the window,
Transomed, mullioned, leaded glass unstained,
And many centuries old,
That made the painting of the triptych disappear,
Into rough, impasto blackness,
All except for the haloes,
Which remained,
Boomerang shaped and returning the gold,
Burnished bright,
Back towards its source.
