though there's not much faith left
and very little snow
this scene of wimborne minster
still makes its christmas show

the building's warm proportions
its sense of move-me-not
catches this winter pagan
on a most forgiving spot

christmas itself unwinds
back to that moment when
mind first let a light in
and darkness cried amen

shopping today i glide
casually on worn ice
the ocean holds its breath
prehistory hides its price

the minster's not my pigeon
yet moons upon the town
as if no one can walk there
lost to its looking down

in me some old anger
shocks its ailing ghost
lets the festive transport
use me as its staging post

however the time is barren
and so much mutters no
i share my godless pleasure
with the minster clad in snow