Again I hear the strains of “Crimond” sweep
between the dripping cedars in the street

” ” ” ” ” ” ”

Bleak morning rain had seeped in wedge-shaped stains
where buttresses of grey, grained stonework gripped
tall walls in case the massive fabric slipped
from righteousness.  The muted melody
of “Lydia” drifted, blown where wind-gusts whipped
and rattled cedar seed-pods through the leaves.

The four-square architectural sermon preached
in bluestone stood and sombered there but glowed
in sound as marching bars of “Oriel” rose
around the masoned coping and where strong
embrasured windows mirrored wills that chose
to set on rock the faith they bore in song.

A row of wet rosettes against the wall
where rain-beads gleamed on shining wheel-spokes. Past
restrained, stained, muted, non-conformist glass
the ordered, soaring chords of “Richmond” rolled
across the pagan, tuneless whistle-blast
that winter blows to summon in the cold.

Today the building stands unaltered and
the key-stone tunes its congregation sings
still lilt the wind.  And though time’s passing brings
me now to quieter reasoned views I’ve found
that my calm humanism sometimes rings
with curiously shallow, tinkling sounds.

” ” ” ” ” ” ”

Tin cymbal sounds that drown when cedars weep
or “Crimond” paces down a windswept street.