Abroad in Norfolk's flat land, its big sky
broken with flinted perpendiculars:
the towers of village churches.
Sufficient unto ourselves, self-catered,
we are adjacent to a stub: its height
unfinished when bequests ran dry.
I cross to the porch's sanctuary,
doubtful pause, then reaching grasp the knocker:
its iron ring a wide palm offered.
Enter. Bathe in puritan light: it floods
the nave with their plain sight, unstained, saving
where the flung stones failed to carry.
Painted angels adorn the hammer beams,
a roof space ripe for conversion. Roundhead
musket shot an echo of spilt blood.
From charred rood screen a whiff of burning stakes;
seven sides of sacrament have been effaced
to know the font may not blaspheme.
But custom renews the rotting pulpit
and window tracery shadows faithful
stay. Each holds to its own maker.
My chair-leg scrapes on flagstones: the feudal
benches long gone for seats more versatile.
Seeking comfort in our habit.
Kettle, tea and biscuits hidden under
cloth. Refreshed, my silent choice of postcard
views becomes a picture missal.
My son, Joe, gave me the title. I like to think he was referring to the subject in question rather than the author.
ReplyDeleteRemiss of me not to name the church in question. It is Our Lady St. Mary at South Creake. I'd like to think I have accurately reflected some of its history, but you can read more here
ReplyDeletehttp://www.norfolkchurches.co.uk/southcreake/southcreake.htm
and here
http://www.southcreake.org/history/a-short-history