On the Right Hand of God,
the Father Almighty
The pheasant stalks the hoar-frost farmer’s field,
But early morning’s backlighting shines strong,
So blackest silhouette is this dawn’s yield.
No. Wait. Pure ugliness does not belong
To spring. A moment later what should come
In view? Another cock—and this one glanced
By sunlight tinged with ice and beauty from
Some transcendental realm, cold beams that danced
With Christ’s high holy crown before they came
To Windsor on this sacred normal morn.
And it is in this springtime sort of frame
That diadem and blossom know the thorn.
..The sun, the pheasant, and the Son all rise.
They promise more than Heathrow’s contrail skies.