Tag Archives: a bit Eliot

Holy Night by Richard Taylor

In the rumours of the lost rooms

And the passages of the ice aged

Heart of the old young world,

Confusion heaps on confusion.

He is a subtle postman comes,

And light laughs

In the corner of his garden’s face,

Hinting that behind,

And in his singular brain,

His envelope encloses

His moral mind, folded,

And impossible to undo

With your voice only.

And, then, you ask:

What is this inside this

And that which resides in that?

Nothing will ever reply,

Even the silence is a lie:

But we struggle,

Stone by bloody stone –

Stunned by our words,

Dumbed by the casual

Horror: numbed by our love,

Bitter, alone in this pacing place:

Alone in this light tormented place.

But night falls in the footfalled

Halls, where the monks tread

In holy mesmery. What are these monks?

Scribing the passages

Of time and what they think has been

Or what will come,

What tricks of fear

That grow the ghosts

Who stretch and die

That more blood be shed.

Fools! But so beautiful

Are their miraculous brains, so subtle,

That we remember Bach, and his holy

enrichment of the dark.

Children Kitchen Church by MaryAnn McCarra