Runic fibres run, an echelon of intonation,
Through iconography refracted, Left and Right.
The ordinance of poverty, angelic, striking
Wayward hearts, hateful babble run through
And silenced by the enclosure of Clare’s women.
A cradle for infants, a sickness for tyrants,
The wanderer’s holy weaponry sings outward,
Through soil, upward, into branch, explosions of leaf and flower,
And then a harvest of fruit, falling, unseen: this darkened sanctuary.
Leave the sheikhs and scientists to their God delusion,
Leave them to their claps and whistles,
For the ordinance demands a chastity greater than that foul lapse
For the ordinance demands the truth function, the verdant Joy.
And so this midnight, I reflect that his charity was orbic universe in miniature,
Replicated by diamond response.
But then I am interrupted, my daughters’ cat sounds at the window
Asking to be let out into night air:
A kaleidoscope of cat and Clare and Kingdom.