Winter Sunday Morning, Christchurch Poem by Les Brighton
Winter Sunday Morning, Christchurch
The sun rises with a roar:
The bowl shatters, and each shard singing.
Faster than eye can follow
Light gathers pasture and cowshed and windbreak
And drives them in thunder
Onto the knees of the mountains.
White and gold
The foam-crest hangs there.
And on the summits, here, and here, and here
A seraph cries ‘Holy! ’
And bursts into flame.
Friday, August 16, 2013
POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
[According to Annie Dillard the old rabbis believed that the seraphs were creatures of light, born from a stream of fire that rose from underneath God’s throne. When contemplating the glory of God the seraphs could not complete the threefold repetition, but on only the first cry of ‘holy’, were so overcome by glory that they were consumed again in flame.]
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