Every saint has a past

Every saint has a past

Every sinner has a future

A wound that does not heal

Will always be weak

A clap of wings above the river

A pigeon in freefall

A world in turnabout

An old rook testing the road for traffic

Leaves dropping Valentines into the water

Mist rolling towards the Big House

All things quiet

Creak of a morning

Echoing through the fields

Immaculate in the still

And I know I will never see

An old woman standing at her half door

Whispering as a pastime.