“…for everything that lives is holy” William Blake
Tenacious flowers of golden weed grow from the cracks. No roof, no door, no pews, no treasure – does it still have a bellyful of love?
entering by the arch
a Cabbage White searches
for what it needs
high above
swifts feast
in endless blue
from an oubliette
in the abandoned ruin
crawls a ladybird
pecking together
a chaffinch couple
graze on the ancient stones
The church walls are blocks of yellow rock, still bearing the scrapes of the rough stone-cutting tools used to square them off. There is a bees’ nest in a hole, hectic with hovering traffic.
Bee City Airport
helijet entrance arch
in the broken mortar
buzz buzz buzz
the congregation ignore
blackbird’s sermon
The blackbird watches me with a bright black pupil rimmed with yellow. The gecko I study is also bright-eyed. A smart beetle, like my neighbour, comes from the car-wash with polished metallic bodywork. From the lean-to outside the church there’s a strangely insistent rhythm.
in the thatch
squeezing notes in unison
a choir of sparrows
in the heat of the sun
a dry font
christens everything
I’m squatting
on the altar
awed by ants
I feel as old as the need for rain, here with the ancient urges of birds and bees. I just sit in the ruins, with my evolutionary company.
I am a bee
I am a lizard
I am a people