Tuesday, 15 December 2015

Advent Mantra

All day the mist doesn't lift from the hills.
The bridle path fringes Deep Well Farm,
the name of which unhappily recalls
our gathering-round in the churchyard

yesterday lunchtime at the saucer-sized
hole the burly sexton had freshly dug
for someone—me—to tip the pulverised
ashes underground from the paper bag.

A hen pheasant Groucho-walks to heaven,
along a route that eventually leads,
if I followed it, to the Silent Pool.

Goldfinches in harmonic progression
tinkle with colours of abacus beads.
I chant aloud: ‘Michael John Roland Paul’.

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