Is it ploughed field, or scrubby heath?
Dogs snuffle on the rust-coloured earth,
and far beyond, among reds and ochres,
the bow falls where it was meant to fall,
Heaven-sent, on the church-tower
pointing upward, a solitary finger.
Pigment stipples in sky’s rainbow-tints,
and there above (but partly of) the ground,
white, insubstantial as vapours,
the cerements mount in cloud, as if hill-built,
a celestial city. Where does the horizon end?
Blazing outside the pool of darkness
two worlds in mighty opposition meet and blend.
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