The Wine
written by: Julian Mann
Grass blooms by dew, the moon drapes off
The calfskin secret texts, lying in state,
Through every burning window
Lines Hemel’s belly.
And church-must is abroad;
Kindness always mourned.
As he led vigil out,
It seemed that his whole life
Were a cathedral.
Childhood was playing on the steps
Near the entrance; there, in a little light-pious
Space, met a tiny man called St Edward.
The aisles and arcades, in puberty,
For larking round pillars.
Occasionally falling into the white breasts
Of common saints.
His heart would torrent novel,
And his organ think.
Many times he forgot his friend
In the office of self, quire, masked
By illusion. Until
The Oldest Door scholared
A practicable fission.
‘I believe in the God of my intellect, suggesting me
To the faithful of history — by way
Of centuries’ percolation.
Assume that everyone, apart
From maybe Grim’s aversion-seasonal,
Is coming to Alford.’
And moon like the autumn sun.
- The Rectory - June 26, 2023
- Frankpledge - January 25, 2023
- Spotlight On Writers – Julian Mann - December 3, 2022
