Across the church square lies (each lamp in space
a moon, translucent hemisphere of mist)
the electric violet; people, shadowless,
pass – black of body, strangely white of face;
the spire like a finger held up high
out of low twilight of man-made delusion;
in all of their rejection and seclusion
the Middle Ages join the electric light.
Searchingly, thoughts are moving to and fro
on this tight square of consciousness, all go
their separate ways, to where truth just might be;
and vast against the background of each soul
there looms dismissive, waiting, mute and cold,
the grim dark block of Christianity.