RELIC

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.

 v. 2012