On Sunday morning, as I pass
the school, a sea of winter grass,
I see the families who pile
from trim cars, Evangelicals,
who turn the school hall for a while
into their church. Their coffee boils.
Certainty might be good for me,
the cleaned shoes, even the fixed smile.
The jay coughs from a bare oak tree,
flown to our town from cold countries.
I see his white back, his blunt tail,
his wings flash frost’s blue sky at me.
As car doors clang, quiet children file,
he glides down on snowed earth, his aisle,
scoops crystal grains of last night’s fall.
Unblessed bright water floods my smile.
If you have any comments on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be pleased to hear from you.