Easter Morning at a Village Church

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.


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