Читать книгу Sanctuary - Martyn Halsall - Страница 10

Close

Always surprised by gulls that call this city

awake, or scratch the morning with sharpened shrieks

that stretch over holy towers and overlapped lorries

offloading in delivery bays. Eternity’s

still in the Close. A single cyclist sidles

shyly from Morning Prayer, unchains his bike;

a trio of schoolboys, uniforms trimmed to trend,

gossip by with identical bags, as advertised.

The copper beech alters its colour secretly

in slowly turning light; lichens become

green again in sun’s reach, first thrush rehearses

his song, beyond organ practice muffled by sandstone.

Those passing stroll, outlined by sunlight, as

sound seeps through from the city’s undertow.

Devotions could come outside this spotlit morning,

a sort of prayer cast into the shape of birdsong:

with reference to the gargoyles’ twisted suffering,

rattle of a train that slows down after distance,

those passing with their needs, baggage, potential;

how shadow is moved by light, occasional voices

discussing the day ahead, nurse and dog-walker,

those listening in through headphones, the bowed heads

furrowing into busyness, and that capacity

for all prayer to surprise: sudden oystercatchers.