As I wander up the high street
I imagine jackboots marching
Straight and narrow, as if arrows,
Hurtling towards their quarry.
Shall we stop to drink a coffee?
Thick March clouds appear autumnal.
Beneath the towers of the church
A man is promising angels.
Heaven is yours for half an hour…
The clock strikes and my stomach growls.
There are shadows in the chapel.
There are gold and stone suggestions.
There is silence like the breezes
Of dense woodlands, clear and thrilling.