In the chapel, Christ's Athene
Holds her wheel
Like a weapon,
Its riveted and silvered blades poised to plunge
And part the millrace of my poor flesh
Like the Red Sea.
‘It wasn’t like that’, she insists,
‘It really wasn’t. Look:
I set it turning, ever-so-gentle -
And all the mute hues of the hills
Are fired by the gold of heaven.’
‘You’re right,’ I say, wide-eyed,
And return down the long hillside to my car
To go on,
Branded with the sign of light.