spires
Posted: Fri Jul 16, 2021 6:51 am
This a poem I originally posted on NAPO. I have undertaken a rewrite and would to know which if either version has any merits.
One version
Rust dusts the milk sheen as sun settles in an arc
across the proud heads of church spires and drying snow.
Every step, or echo, stretches brittle in the cold,
their fragile prayer containing crisp words like hope and grace,
for faith forces out the elasticity of doubt collapsing around this town,
blows the paper cups and headlines away,
stitches night and day into one long band of colours -
car lights that unfurl holy ribbons up into the distance.
This winter clarity is a bell summons to worship
spirit over reason, ritually bows to ancient myth and forgiveness;
breath a cleansing incense.
Other version
Hope has collapsed around this town,
of abandoned coffee cups, paper bags and dark stars
And yet, winter’s clarity summons us to worship,
to raise spirit over reason, our breath a cleansing incense.
Sundown rust etches an arc on the snow,
from which every step releases a brittle echo.
Car lights unfurl holy ribbons into the distance,
stitch the somber road into a single band of colours
and we sing When We All Get to Heaven.
One version
Rust dusts the milk sheen as sun settles in an arc
across the proud heads of church spires and drying snow.
Every step, or echo, stretches brittle in the cold,
their fragile prayer containing crisp words like hope and grace,
for faith forces out the elasticity of doubt collapsing around this town,
blows the paper cups and headlines away,
stitches night and day into one long band of colours -
car lights that unfurl holy ribbons up into the distance.
This winter clarity is a bell summons to worship
spirit over reason, ritually bows to ancient myth and forgiveness;
breath a cleansing incense.
Other version
Hope has collapsed around this town,
of abandoned coffee cups, paper bags and dark stars
And yet, winter’s clarity summons us to worship,
to raise spirit over reason, our breath a cleansing incense.
Sundown rust etches an arc on the snow,
from which every step releases a brittle echo.
Car lights unfurl holy ribbons into the distance,
stitch the somber road into a single band of colours
and we sing When We All Get to Heaven.