Lift Up Our Eyes To

Take What The Old-church Found In Mithra's Tomb, Candle And Script And Bell, Take What The New-church Spat Upon And Broke And Shattered.

I Testify To Rainbow Feathers, To The Span Of Heaven And Walls Of Colour, The Colonnades Of Jasper.

The Christos-image Is Most Difficult To Disentangle From Its Art-craft Junk-shop Paint-and-plaster Medieval Jumble Of Pain-worship And Death-symbol.

No One Knows, The Heart Of A Child, How It Grows Until It Is Too Late.

I Had Drawn Away Into The Salt, Myself, A Shell Emptied Of Life.