A Sunday morning in the high church yard,
at Holme on Spalding Moor above the wold:
the organ sounding out, not too impaired,
by sealed in years of damp, decay and mould,
a spreading cedar tree guarding the graves,
its blue-grey-green contrasting with the yews.
The hymns resound in warm contralto waves,
from farmers wives on regimented pews,
and I am here refreshed by summer’s breeze,
moved by ancient forces and impelled,
to stop and wait and listen to the trees,
and know that here all human time is held,
as nothing next to this resistless calm,
immune to hours, elder scented balm.
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