G14 (a cave in Dewisland)
communion gifts were otherwise.
We went to sing the song O,
Thou, pure, divine
Virgin – when Easter stripped the beach of tourists,
sowing the sand with rain. You harvested
rich harmonies, so close, my God in silent rock...
we found a single flower, glowing
on the cave’s hearth-stone.
Out, in the inglenook of sky,
the sun blazed afternoon.
By moonlight, at
Michaelmas, it might have been Non nobis,
Domine – we sang, heads bowed,
under the low roof, just
for you, One God, Who’ s listening.
So it was not myself in G14,
all night at Christmas, wreathed
in the duvets. They slept soundly,
- though the long sea boomed
to the pitch of a gale. He
split to the West,
and I’ve come home in the south
to the cave of my mouth.
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