Chatsworth, Good Friday 2009.

Grey with grief, the sky wept

Windless drops, a softer tap,

that hist, slipt and glist;

a gentler keening, a meaning in mist,

its wraiths clinging to the side of the hill;

the greening of reverence.  . 


Narcissus bowed its head as the early bird

Uttered a muffled refrain, and black-cross daws,

glid down from the shadow of the rocks,

under the eye of the hare, the fierce velvet stags

to the ducks in their fearless puddles.


And in sombre Edensor,

the dark swell of the organ

dragged a sigh from the penitent.