Saturday, 9 May 2015

The thing itself

It was there once -
unsought, unreason'd.
A Sunday afternoon,
an autumn Evensong,
old prayers in the old light
soaking in the old stones.
In the echoing pauses
between the right words
formed by mumbling sinners -

At the corner of an eye,
fleeting in the twilight.
But do not look too hard or long
for observation changes and destroys
and we are at the border
of that which can be said.

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