NUNNAMINSTER
A fog has settled: particles
corrode the gate and trees;
angels, their white limbs,
are broken. The soil,
a dump of names, dark
figures, echos their laughter.
In the faded conurbation
of the centuries, paradise —
our unconscious time there,
becomes untouchable. Two
memorials decline, vanishing
in nettle stalks. Their letters,
our democratic arguments,
disintegrate in mud.
* * * * * * * *
In winter we stood
beneath the ribs of trees,
their perpetual garden.
The snow had not yet fallen,
only rain. Plastic flowers thick
with last year's bramble. Mistletoe
and holly building wreaths.
* * * * * * *
The cathedral dissolves.
An acid mist surrounds it
from the river. Deacons
jog ecclesiastical boundaries,
scythed hogweed. Many
people have failed; their luxuries,
the distances created,
have formed landscapes
without history. Nunnaminster,
below Sainsbury's, radiant
with energy: the snow queen
cooling out, obscured by rain.
New motorways are built
amongst the debris of your life:
and your loves are idle-fingered,
becoming like the hooded
cuckoo-pint, losing ground. Their families,
of unknown origin, forget them.
