Mea Culpa
Twice on Sunday, the bells affront the morning air, eight tongues giving a nod to belief as finally they bong out their names. I can not…
Poetry
Twice on Sunday, the bells affront the morning air,
eight tongues giving a nod to belief
as finally they bong out their names.
I can not see where there is to go.
How I would like to believe in lies,
that face of effigy gentled by candles.
Separated from my house, spirited mists inhabit me
and I have fallen a long way.
The yew hedge, black and leafy, from childhood,
mistakenly mourned by saints and garlanded children.
The moon also, has nothing to be sad about,
for I am guilty of nothing
but a great silence of another order.