THE SMALL CHURCH AT FRANSUM
Does god exist still, small sarcophagus
of faith, as vacant as
the Doric temples at Paestum:
a hiding place their columns for other birds
than gods – when I ask for him?
Small mummy of stone
with no heart, tabernacle,
with no place for sacred candle, do you
protect our landscape with your body
as a floor for heaven? I’m only asking.
Silent soundbox for outside, for godwits
in June, lowing dairy cattle at the gate –
so closed, I sit one evening in the grass
among your tombstones, you are loveliest so:
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