The church is like the prow
Of a smoky ship, moving
On the down channel currents
To the open sea. A stone
Figurehead, the flowing light
Streams from it. From everywhere
You can see Top Church, remote
As high church is from chapel.
Church high on the summit
Of the climbing town
Where I was a child, where rain
Runs always slantingly
On streets like tilted chutes
Of grey sliding on all sides
From the church, to sea and dock,
To shopping streets and home.
Breasting the cloud, its stone
Profile of an ancient priest
Preaches continuity
In the face of turning tides.
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