worship

A pilgrim to the trove of you,
I found your hilltop and your shaded grove.
I heard the strummed notes of the lyre,
and where I knelt to say my prayer
the ground was moist,
the loam was yielding.
 
The loud cry then,  
the clutch against the violet earth,
the rush of breath,
the fire,
the violent stroke beneath the copper beech,
the hush.
 
And light moved on your shoulders
and your turning arms,
turning, turned,
to bind me up in worship.