‘So Sang a Little Clod of Clay’
When it hurts, but she doesn’t say;
when it dulls, but he still gives praise.
When she bites, but he refuses rage
and he walks free, yet she stays.
When they wait through blunt dismay
although they ache as the children play
this is tread and bootgrind
this is hope’s hard labour
this is the heart’s ripe savour
this is the sting of healing
this is the rope of time —
and love is dust
in fleet, golden murmuration.