by Nick Swarbrick
Small candles gutter in the long, draughty church.
High up, a butterfly beats against the window.
My thoughts are thoughts of peace
Well, good for you: for I am tired,
Flapping in vain against doubt’s clarity
To him who has not even what he has
Will be taken away
Congratulations: I can see my faith
Dispersing like the candle smoke.
I know the butterfly will not escape; the candles
Will grow cold, but will I leave, freed, illuminated?
This is my body.
