A Sacred Lurch
..
I often pass a dome of holy blue
With golden stars, a prayer-hands, tulip form
With many-pointed stars. To give this view,
A narrow church stands firm. A cherry storm
Of pink blows up from down below. (A sight
I spied not far away from windows on the trains
For years taught eyes that saw it to delight
In hope. It is a slender spire that strains
The heart towards heaven. Then I went one day
To see the nave beneath. It was gone. Bombs
From Hitler had destroyed it. Numb dismay
Enveloped me as in harm smothered psalms.)
I will not go to see the Russian church
Lest letdown pall another pilgrim search.