1
Fallen fruit of the flesh,
fruit of the broken word,
bright and brindled, you weigh
much more in the hand
than on the bough.

                               And yet,
I once more smell the dew
and rain, and relish versing.
Meanwhile, the seas rise
and the ideograms of God fail.

              *

In an empty church by the Thames
an impervious stained-glass angel
unfurls a scroll - Behold
thy mother as once she was

Thy mother now reduced
to a fine sift of ash,
surprisingly dark, that slides
with a sigh from the plastic jar

Her given-up ghost settles
...