Boston Lincolnshire May 1999.

The wild storm pours through space like a poultice
Curing the raw land with a coolness
That eases the shrivelled crops back into life
And awakens the dormant currents of the gnarled
                                     streams.
The trees reach up like hands grasping for rain,
(Desert hands beating back the sun burning dusty
                                     faces),
And the shrill cry of birds filters through the wind
As they shield their young with their wings.

Closeted in calmness, the congregation shelters in
                                     the church
Under the eye of the storm. Outside the sudden squalls
Twist the face of the Haven into a fierce torment
Of anguished grimness, a tidal fury of salt and foam.

Constructed before faith was questioned, the Gothic
                                        tower
Sways imperceptibly upon its deep foundations
Like a stunted sermon, a petition lopped, unfinished,
A Jesse tree with all the branches severed.
St Botolph formed this place, preaching upon a rock
Desert parables transferred to fertile Lincolnshire
Where houses built on sand are rare and strange;
And windmills, turning like prayer wheels, protect
                                  the fens.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 28th. - June 15th. 1999.