CHAPEL PINES
Gosen chapel now is grey and silent.
hard to keep warm
without the wrath of God.
filled twice, filled thrice a year
when the dog-tired farmers, or
their small, steadfast wives, turn, turn and
return, to the sleepy earth
they are made from.
jackdaws in the chapel oak
are the black-clad preachers now,
and the line of pines that divide
the living from the dead, and the west wind
that scours the marshy fields,
joining together in dreary, beautiful psalms.
they keep the view open to the empty hills:
the wandering constellations of sheep,
the souls of these departed lovers,
grazing the lovely green.
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