By Stour’s waters, on a day
Of summer mists and sunlight pale,
I saw the tower of Dedham Church
And heard its bell across the Vale.
Yet time stood still for angels passed
In golden cohorts overhead,
And, like the play of light on hills,
The glory of their presence spread.
My blest companions drank with me
The silence of that mystic hour,
And, by their passing, stirred for me
The healing waters of the Stour.
April 1990
I came at last to Lindisfarne
And walked the shore that Aidan trod,
And felt in rain and salty wind
The presence of his Celtic god.
What came we out to seek, to find?
What vestiges of youthful faith
To resurrect from grass and sand,
Upon the bleak Northumbrian heath?
Dear, gentle saint, whose Irish name
Means ‘Little Fire’, ignite in me,
Across the intervening years,
The furnace of your charity.
July 1993 with Judy and Lucy
On our way to Edinburgh
We must pack our bags and go
to the limits that we know
And beyond, to virgin fields
Where the greener grasses grow.
Journey far and travel lightly,
With our weary steps made sprightly
By the distant prospect’s glow.
1992
I have a homing instinct for the stars 
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