Back from Canterbury
Margaret Houston
The streetlamps fizzed like sparklers
In the running damp of the window
And I curled my feet against the heater
and closed my eyes against the twilight
As we sped on silently,
our backs to the Cathedral.
Through the blue-jeweled evening we drove,
Through valleys, over hills, and between cornfields
lying fallow in the February chill,
where pilgrim feet have trod through the centuries.
And voices of angels rang in my memory.
(O God, make speed to save us.)
Till London lay below us, spread at our feet,
Twinkling streets dotted with raindrops.
And far behind us the shrine of a martyr stands watch--
one candle, in the vaulted darkness.
(O Lord, make haste to help us.)
Then the shivering morning comes, and ghosts flee to
the shadows,
and solemn priests in white attend the flame.
While we, far off and drowsy in our city beds,
have no priests and martyrs,
no candles or thrones.
In the London morning,
crowded with taxicabs and chimneys, we--
Have only our memories of angels,
And our dreaming of saints.
(Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy
Spirit.
As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever.
Amen.)