The yellow plate of the sun
is hidden behind clouds.
A misty, hilly, morning; ghosts of memory lie
in valleys, on hedgerows.
Dew falls in blue grass.
The promise is of steaming tea
and hot brown buns and butter.
Before that, the blaring vox humana, tremulant
in the 8’, or some paltry diapasons and reeds.
The white smell of lilies.
Now all this ordinariness
floods into the marvellous.
Here are the old women, batty in their best hats,
revealed as holy things.
There is no sitting in the pew
but on the stone, or some bear spices.
They raise their eyes, their voices, their tight-curled
shampoos-and-sets, to heaven
mouths awake with song.
And as for me? I consider myself
as rich as a linden tree in June.