Shot down from its enskied formation, This
stern-faced plummet rests against the wall; Cromwell's
soldiers peppered it and now the death-
watch beetle has it in thrall.
If you make fortunes
from wool, along The weeping winter foreshores of the
tide, You build big churches with clerestories
And place angels high inside.
Their painted faces
guard and guide. Now or Tomorrow or whenever is the
promise - The resurrection comes: Fix your eyes halfway
Between Heaven and Diss.
The face is crudely carved,
simplified by wind; It looks straight at God and waits
for orders, Buffeted by the organ militant, and blasted
By choristers and recorders.
Faith would have our
eyes as wooden and as certain. It might be worth it, to
start the New Year's hymn Allowing for death as a mere
calculation,
A depreciation, entered in.
Or so I fancy looking at
the roof beams Where the dangerous beetle sails. What is
it Turns an atheist's mind to prayer in almost
Any church on a country visit?
Greed for love or
certainty of forgiveness High security rising with sea
birds? A theology of self looking for precedents
A chance to speak old words?
Rather, I think a woman
lying in her bed Staring for hours up to the ceiling
where Nothing is projected - death the only angel
To shield her from despair.
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