Dull Window

Shaken from sleep
I see strange shapes moving,
figures on a landscape
that is no longer mine.
Old ghosts on wise shorelines,
innocence and evil
walk hand in hand.

Dead to the picture
I wait at a blind corner
where thinking solves nothing.
Dark edges call me to shelter
and diverse ways seem to offer hope.

I wake to this dull window each day
where colour is dead,
and there are no offers of company.
Fifty years ago,
Chapel bells and Cathedral choirs
sang out across the Suffolk fields,
in a time when wonderment shone
in English hearts,
now a sacrifice of tears
floods from the heart of God,
and I am a prisoner
to this dull window.

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