Cootham Lane

Twilight has encircled

The flowers in the garden,

And the sky is dim and faint.

The flowers are as cold as alabaster,

And luminous like paint

Of an old Venetian master.

In the church across the fields

They are asking pardon.

And in twilight

Comes the echo

Of an ancient door that closes,

And the echo of their voices.

For now they go, the villagers-

Along the road they go again,

Under the unrepentant stars,

Across the fields and through the lane.