The Church of Chance (A Church for Heathens)
( on Hurt Street in Paradise, Central )

Foundation Stone

Midday; within a stone circle,
Fourteen megaliths in all. Murmurs foreign in tone, ancient in rhythm,
Hands apart, raised to the skies,
The Cannibal queue forms.

Night; and I note with exactness
Using formulae, how stars and crescents fall,
Deducing empirical facts,
Of mediocre importance.

Black cloth, white cloak; what difference?
Two poles in mutual dependence,
Transubstantiation, Abstract calculation,
Which the bigger leap?

Oh to be a stone, in ancient times,
To know the workings of the stars,
And secrets of the heart,
To find the patterns in the dark,
To seek the glory in the light,
And keep my silence in the cold,
To know, to hold.