Three Poems

Lex Orandi

A slow train, I’m carried north to speak
Of mystery, out and in, The Divine Vision.

Windows jolt and I see fields north
Of Northallerton, ridges grassed over,

Echo of strip farmers, so meagre,
Long lines of soil the difference

Between life and death. Further out,
Steam plumes where horizon should be,

That is what electricity looks like
After it’s passed on; finally, Durham,

Cathedral towers wrapped in white
(Swaddling? bandages?)

So this is glory, glory-bound!
I might close my eyes or pull down

The blind, but why, oh why?
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