A poem by Herbert Read
Kirkdale.
I, Orm the son of Gamel
Found these fractured stones
Starting out of the fragrant thicket.
The river bed was dry.
The rooftreesnaked and bleached,
Nettles in the nave and aisleways,
On the alter an owls cast
And a feather from a wild doves wing.
There was peace in the valley:
Far into the eastern sea
The foe had gone, leaving death and ruin
And a longing for a priest’s solace.
Fast the feather lay
Like a sulky jewel in my head
Till I knew it had fallen in a holy place.
Therefore I raised these grey stones up again.