At Harewood's End, near Herefordshire, I drove
from A49, to stop and picnic briefly there
within a copse of alder trees, while from afar
a blacksmith sky of clouds did come upon the flank,
wind-swept band barbarian;
far-sounding meteoric anvils;
threatening our day.
The sanctuary of St. Denis church
were bulwark to the storms that beat upon,
we ran widdershins and dove clerestory
ducking into the gothic well of souls -
under richly decorated baldachins,
we dansed within the chancel
within the sunbeams from cinquefoil
pectoral rosettes.
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