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
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem