A Kind of Epiphany. (Revised)

Between the tarmac and God
Nestles the herb garden,
A place to rest your feet,
A place to rest your mind.

Secularism is a bald faced lie,
Everything in the world is holy,
Every tree grown straight or crooked,
Every child lost in play.

I touch the wall of the old cathedral,
Even the grey stones seem alive,
They thrum with the lives of the men that carved them,
Not with the traffic roaring outside.

I have gone back to reading Cranmer`s Prayer Book,
Ancient words have the power to heal
Wounds cut deep by misapplied science
Into the skulls of ancient beliefs.

Secularism has lobotomised true history,
The history of workmen, not ruled by clocks,
In thrall to the church bells chiming the seasons,
The dance of the stars on wintry nights.

Enclosed by tarmac and the sculpted Word
I sit alone and write this poem,
Thoughts balanced between the roar of the traffic
And the silent prayers of the distant saints.

Silence perhaps is more powerful than thunder.
Silence perhaps cuts deeper than words.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 21st. 2017.