Stood, leadenboned, before the bed-length
grooved barrows. Lit rainwater brimmed there:
the tombstone’s saddle-gloss became a font,

and anima reglossed itself as that instant
in the top room of the tower’s grey file
when her studious concentrated hush
pulled all space as tight to her as the pith
lagging snug around a chestnut.

*

Chains of thrushes, flecked bellies uplit,
heltered chittering through bright fog.

Their shadows broke past the window slit,
interrupted the light, helped her see again
how her splayed bone-coloured psalter
had a milled, granular lucency all for her.