He found a new religion
in a church of stories
where the writing sloped like his own

and was strangely familiar

with the various complex results,
although they became more and more sinister,
more allusive and confused:

gas-lights and Gothic revival,

mineral railways and garden cities,

and later (walking through apple trees

in blossom in May),

he made this image ­–

then let another one be formed

from the debris

of an inconsistent series

of thoughts and words

shrivelled in epigrams,

as his own dark god
-–who created both the lion and the lamb –
became visible,

before hastening away

under the threat of night,
seeming as near

as any suburban garden,

and no further

than where the porch light ends.


Phil Bowen

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