Rycote Chapel

Emblems of change and disasters
the stars are falling:
gilt paper stars from a painted ceiling—
outside the rooks are calling
as the wet leaves drift on the sill
of a door rarely opened—
here's a mad world, my masters.

Stars in a quincunx between flecked clouds
in faded blue skies:
Arcadian heavens to vault-roofed box pews
echo a ghost's tired sighs
in lost Jacobean formal splendour
now dry-rotted, cobweb hung
in a dusty reminder of shrouds.

A proud private world this wooden room
now unfrequented, crumbling:
so our little worlds built so cunningly
break, our poor pride humbling—
there's no escape to contrived blue heavens
our brightest star is but gilded,
always we fashion a tomb.

27 October 1945