Of A Sunday's Secrecy Poem by Julian Mann

Of a Sunday's
secrecy:
my vision, distilled.
It is a task
settling eyes on a clipped canopy;
to settle thought
in the denseness of a fen-
philosophy;

yet it is of now I speak.
Solitary words, the blank expanse pause, or,
rhythm in the reeds.

Wearing his terse shawl
as perceived
round the bog church's
mild grief.

Something fed this secrecy
russet, medieval
where there is no water

And where is stillness, comes the sacred rapidly
running of Aethel's dream
in the reeds beat. This will do

to entomb

the land

marble light
and holiest watery moon

white marble

this will do
holiest drownèd light