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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395827" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>At Thurgarton Church</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">To the memory of my father</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At Thurgarton Church the sun <br>burns the winter clouds over<br>the gaunt Danish stone<br>and thatched reeds that cover<br>the barest chapel I know.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I could compare it with<br>the Norse longboats that bore<br>burning the body forth<br>in honour from the shore<br>of great fjords long ago.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The sky is red and cold<br>overhead, and three small<br>sturdy trees keep a hold<br>on the world and the stone wall<br>that encloses the dead below.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I enter and find I stand<br>in a great barn, bleak and bare.<br>Like ice the winter ghosts and<br>the white walls gleam and flare<br>and flame as the sun drops low.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I see, then, that slowly<br>the December day has gone.<br>I stand in the silence, not wholly<br>believing I am alone.<br>Somehow I cannot go.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then a small wind rose, and the trees<br>began to crackle and stir<br>and I watched the moon by degrees<br>ascend in the window till her<br>light cut a wing in the shadow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I thought: the House of the Dead.<br>The dead moon inherits it.<br>And I seem in a sense to have died<br>as I rise from where I sit<br>and out into darkness go.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I know as I leave I shall pass<br>where Thurgarton’s dead lie<br>at those old stones in the grass<br>under the cold moon’s eye.<br>I see the old bones glow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No, they do not sleep here<br>in the long holy night of<br>the serene soul, but keep here<br>a dark tenancy and the right of<br>rising up to go.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here the owl and soul shriek with<br>the voice of the dead as they turn<br>on the polar spit and burn<br>without hope and seek with<br>out hope the holy home below.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet to them the mole and<br>mouse bring a wreath and a breath<br>of the flowering leaves of the soul, and<br>it is from the Tree of Death<br>the leaves of life grow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The rain, the sometime summer<br>rain on a memory of roses<br>will fall lightly and come a-<br>mong them as it erases<br>summers so long ago.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the voices of those<br>once so much loved will flitter<br>over the nettled rows<br>of graves, and the holly tree twitter<br>like friends they used to know.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And not far away the<br>icy and paralysed stream<br>has found it also, that day the<br>flesh became glass and a dream<br>with no where to go.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Haunting the December<br>fields their bitter lives<br>entreat us to remember<br>the lost spirit that grieves<br>over these fields like a scarecrow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That grieves over all it ever<br>did and all, all not<br>done, that grieves over<br>its crosspurposed lot:<br>to know and not to know.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The masterless dog sits<br>outside the church door<br>with dereliction haunting its<br>heart that hankers for<br>the hand that loved it so.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not in a small grave<br>outside the stone wall<br>will the love that it gave<br>ever be returned, not for all<br>time or tracks in the snow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">More mourned the death of the dog<br>than our bones ever shall<br>receive from the hand of god<br>this bone again, or all<br>that high hand could bestow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As I stand by the porch<br>I believe that no one has heard<br>here in Thurgarton Church<br>a single veritable word<br>save the unspoken No.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The godfathered negative<br>that responds to our mistaken<br>incredulous and heartbroken<br>desire above all to live<br>as though things were not so.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Desire to live as though the<br>two-footed clay stood up<br>proud never to know the<br>tempests that rage in the cup<br>under a rainbow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Desire above all to live<br>as though the soul was stone,<br>believing we cannot give<br>or love since we are alone<br>and always will be so.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That heartbroken desire<br>to live as though no light<br>ever set the seas on fire<br>and no sun burned at night<br>or Mercy walked to and fro.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The proud flesh cries: I am not<br>caught up in the great cloud<br>of my unknowing. But that<br>proud flesh had endowed<br>us with the cloud we know.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To this the unspoken No<br>of the dead god responds<br>and then the whirlwinds blow<br>over all the things and beyond<br>and the dead mop and mow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And there in the livid dust<br>and bones of death we search<br>until we find as we must<br>outside Thurgarton Church<br>only wild grasses blow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I hear the old bone in me cry<br>and the dying spirit call:<br>I have forfeited all<br>and once and for all must die<br>and this is all that I know.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For now in a wild way we<br>know that justice is served<br>and that we die in the clay we<br>dread, desired, and deserved,<br>awaiting no Judgement Day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=George+Barker">George Barker</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395827" data-title="At Thurgarton Church de George Barker" data-description="To the memory of my father

At Thurgarton Church the sun 
burns the winter clouds over
the gaunt Danish stone
and thatched reeds that cover
the barest chapel I know.

I could compare it with
the Norse longboats that bore
burning the body forth
in ..."></div>
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