An Altogether Different Language

Anne Porter

There was a church in Umbria, Little Portion,

Already old eight hundred years ago.

It was abandoned and in disrepair

But it was called St. Mary of the Angels

For it was known to be the haunt of angels,

Often at night the country people

Could hear them singing there.

What was it like, to listen to the angels,

To hear those mountain-fresh, those simple voices

Poured out on the bare stones of Little Portion

In hymns of joy?

No one has told us.

Perhaps it needs another language

That we have still to learn,

An altogether different language.