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|The church of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Middle Tysoe|
Wood pigeons gather in the trees
about Church Farm and swifts
contemplate their flight, as late summer
light falls upon Jacobean pews
through watery Victorian glass.
Silence curls in the evening
air, clinging to the chancel
walls like the memory
of swung incense or the faith
of ploughmen; rough-hewn
from the rich red soil and grey rains
that give birth to the racking cough
and burning ague.
Beneath the stony gaze
of the Norman Horseman
and panting dog,
eye to eye
toe to toe;
Job before his maker
(but which is which?).
We lay our complaints
before each other. Mine written in
guttering candlelight and the arrow
of a sparrow's short flight,
His written in Levantine dust
and the bitter taste of cheap red wine.
Together we survey the distance
between us and silently