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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.
Written by The_Silly_Sibyl (Jack Thomas)
Published
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