When The Deer Come Down from the Moorland
As the last candle is dimmed from mass
a mile away we pass into Birkwood
One black dog on the hill called Barney
ghosts through the gate
Our feet find knots under the snow, soft
chests of heather, hidden rabbit doors
and there we come upon the saints, still
as a cloud, steam on their crowns, casting
a memory: a ballroom, a hall of skulls,
then Barney comes down and they scatter
leaving a single note of snowfall,
a hymn distilled to its most hidden part.
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