Poem by Basil Cheesman Bunting

At Briggflatts Meetinghouse

Boasts time mocks cumber Rome. Wren
set up his own monument.
Others watch fells dwindle, think
the sun’s fires sink.

Stones indeed sift to sand, oak
blends with saint’s bones.
Yet for a little longer here
stone and oak shelter

silence while we ask nothing
but silence. Look how clouds dance
under the wind’s wing, and leaves
delight in transience.

1. What the Chairman Told Tom
2. On the Fly-Leaf of Pound’s Cantos
3. Gin the Goodwife Stint

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