Fern Glen

 

There is a glen whose lichened boles

Straight as cathedral columns stand;

A place wherein the humbler souls,

Barred from what  once was their own land,

Asylum seek.

 

Church of the wild, no angel wing

Motionless flight on boss or beam;

No choristers but thrushes sing,

The music rises from the stream,

And stray lambs speak.

 

No stained-glass lancets hide the sun

But leaf on leaf in deepening green;

Along the aisle furred creatures run,

Upon their grave no brasses seen;

Here are the meek.

 

Here are the shy and quiet folk,

Whose eyes glance swiftly from the fern;

Those who were lords ere man had awoke

His shameless cruelties to learn,

Making earth bleak.

 

Mona’s Herald     6.3.62