In Ardingly Chapel

If at every instant time is splintered,
unmade, unbuilt,
who can say that our own fragile spirit
still is not spilt?
Ah, may a word of beauty in a body
the world discards
still breathe, still speak? Or are we dressed in only
splinters and shards?

A while a few words catch upon the lip
of an abyss.
Time looks at them and lets them slip. There is
no more than this.
All that we make and do, and seek to save,
all is undone,
despite the hubris of a wannabe self
praising the One.

Cold among glass and brick and stone I sat.
I knew, I knew
what the stray world, and each stray world in it,
was coming to.
Too long I’d listened to the human murmur,
a motley gang
serving its time. And then, dwarfing the many,
the chapel sang.