To a Pantheist

 

Dead is the sky above the frozen ridge,

And icy as the hand of death the breeze;

Drawn on the chilly peaks the clouds

Are shredded like grey mouldering shrouds;

In Hela’s cold grasp spans the ancient bridge,

As horror- stricken wretches stare the trees.

 

Callously, cruelly drips the late sharp light

Soaking the snow in patches livid, green;

Out of the rigid west, sapped pale of hue,

Where jagged rents allow it to well through;

Stiff, stark, the land awaits the night,

The covering night with her compassionate screen.

 

The air is dank, in nostrils stagnant moves,

Charged with mortality, life-taking breath;

Deep hidden are they in undiscovered mines,

What some can find, of God’s great love the signs;

Not Nature here can show the God who loves;

Not signs like these the God who conquers death!

 

 

Weekly Times 15.12.61