deepundergroundpoetry.com
Christianised
The idol of our garden flees
to wounded memory. The trees
and birds and changing skies
were what I pled to once.
I am the kneeling slave of love:
God’s knives of Solitude and Want
will cast my pagan soul in gore
on England’s ancient crystal shore.
Yet if in His great firmament
a saviour’s blood may run
through kingdoms like a new Nile,
may we not look to stones in henge?
He is like the burning sand
poured across this pleasant land.
to wounded memory. The trees
and birds and changing skies
were what I pled to once.
I am the kneeling slave of love:
God’s knives of Solitude and Want
will cast my pagan soul in gore
on England’s ancient crystal shore.
Yet if in His great firmament
a saviour’s blood may run
through kingdoms like a new Nile,
may we not look to stones in henge?
He is like the burning sand
poured across this pleasant land.
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