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
Je suis le jardinier
Roi de mes quelques ares,
L’accoucheur au seuil de la vie
Et nourrice aux petits aux faibles.
Je suis le portier fidèle
Au portail des saisons,
Le semeur aux bras longs
Le tuteur qui tient ferme et bon.
Je suis le porteur d’eau
Soulageant les assoiffés,
Mais aussi le bourreau,
L’envahisseur des microcosmes.
Je suis le bûcheron
Elarguant les branches stériles,
L’incendiaire des feuilles mortes,
Le fossoyeur des trépassés.
Je serai moi-même à la fin,
Le grain qui meurt et qui vit,
L’humus qui renouvelle la terre.
Mais, jusqu’à la tombée du fruit,
Je suis l’homme comblé
Humant l’odeur de ses roses,
Le Bon Dieu qui se promène
A la fraîcheur du soir.
A song of hope for the dark days of the winter solstice.
The season turns and Advent’s candles bright
Dispel the darkness of the winter night.
Of hope and comfort men and children sing
And fashion garlands for their winter king.
Arise, Great Sun, in answer to our praise,
To warm the passing of our winter days.
The Solstice dawns and sacred mistletoe
From winter apple trees outlined with snow
All gathered in, now decks the household shrine
Where Man’s humanity and God’s entwine.
Arise, fair Star, in answer to our praise,
To light the passing of our winter days.
I have a homing instinct for the stars 
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