The Chapel

The Chapel

There’s a chapel across the meadow

- in a copse on the edge of the woods -

where the hymns are sung by blackbirds

and the pews are fallen logs.

The light is coloured by seasons

- Spring green to Autumn red -

the Winter makes marble statues

and berries are wine and bread.

The flight of the swan in the heavens,

the turning from day into night,

the lengthening of the shadows

and the joyful return of the light -

these, all, are Signs of the Sacred

and here, in this chapel, they’re found;

there’s a chapel across the meadow,

a coppice of Holy Ground.

Reviews

[Adam Whitworth]

beautiful, really nice, great success of a poem.

[Precia]

Stunningly beautiful poem Ruth!
I adore the vivid imagery that allows me entrance to this Holy Ground in my mind. Technically, it is perfect but beyond that, it speaks to the soul.

[RuthCalderMurphy]

Thank you so much, Precia!