though there's not much faith left
and very little snow
this scene of wimborne minster
still makes its christmas show
the building's warm proportions
its sense of move-me-not
catches this winter pagan
on a most forgiving spot
christmas itself unwinds
back to that moment when
mind first let a light in
and darkness cried amen
shopping today i glide
casually on worn ice
the ocean holds its breath
prehistory hides its price
the minster's not my pigeon
yet moons upon the town
as if no one can walk there
lost to its looking down
in me some old anger
shocks its ailing ghost
lets the festive transport
use me as its staging post
however the time is barren
and so much mutters no
i share my godless pleasure
with the minster clad in snow
