I listen.

The hours open

To where the Spire swells-

From spectacles of cloud

And latticed- light.

 

I enter them.

They are sepia doors opened

By unparcelled winds;

Breaking with promises

To the crackling dawn.

 

 Here grey pines preach

 To buried tongues;

 Translating the snow

 And spiriting minds.

 

 Our songs they find you at the minutes� close

 Tipping the bells through the giving dark,

 Satisfying the mourning, with their realised palms.

 

Let all clocks turn back then

To those winter worlds

Where our eyes were  

Pupils to what went before:

Where the yew tree�s resin

Gave more tears of joy

And that candied- fruit star

Burned alone.

.

I  listen through the hours

As your shadow�s spine

Bends to the last lamb home.