Hours and hours of unwasted time have been spent sitting at one end of a
long pew listening to sermons on the sermon on the mount. I slide onto the
smoothed timber of generations, put aside hymnbook, scarf, gloves and (later in
life) glasses upon its spacious plane, to live again through the blessed
paradoxes that upend the balance I thought I had about most things; any of us
have. Whether poetry or anti-poetry becomes unimportant. Windows change from
June grey to silver as, far from grassy knolls, the medium Eastern Hill
congregation close in on the meaning of ‘inherit’.
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