Praise

Sometimes a thing is given

its moment—water limber

from my kitchen tap—

almost the whole sumptuous

sense of it. Now that praise

is a remedy so praised,

I’m drawn not to a simple

hymn but Hopkins and gash

gold-vermillion—words

he chose in fear his faith

had fled on dark wings.

Words held dear—

energised by nothing

more than planetary spin.

Published in the online journal Eureka and Broken Ground UWAP