Trumpet Praises Like A Priest Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Trumpet praises like a priest
But the heart has no more love for stars,
Already crushed to powdery dust,
Yet still — a seed.

Still sends its pale horn up through rubble,
That white bindweed mouth
Asking nothing, opening anyway
To whatever thin light falls.

Chaste now, vowing one love only —
Heart swollen with its own rose-weight,
Prospero true to himself, no shadow self,
No other name to answer to.

Here it would flower and be still,
Twining blind toward heaven,
Nothing between it and Him.

All magic laid down.
All crooked workings done.
All doubt has gone quiet
In that stillness where He is.

And the bindweed keeps climbing —
Pale horn open,
Neither asking nor refusing —
Just praise, just this.