The Village Church

Two spiring walls, three upright lines of stone
Tower like a fortress thrusting into cloud.
The needle-twittering swallows by the lightning rod.
The tower in silhouette — a lion’s throne.

What colors in the spicy airs are blown!
The copper orb on the spire like a ball of jade.
The soaring mist — a somber, leaden shroud.
The voice of thunder. The sky a warring zone.

These are the jewels of a jaded crown,
The blue enchantment of a child-gone day.
Sitting and dreaming, bleak and dumb in the gray

Of the church, blissfully drowsing the time away.
Dead saints and mildewed books, God dead and gone.

Outside the bleating of sheep goes on and on.