The Antagonism

to Helena Shire The Makers did not make The muddy winter hardening to privation, Or cholera in the keep, or frost’s long ache Afflicting every mortal nation From lord to villagers in their fading dyes —Those who like oxen strained On stony clearings of the ground From church to sties. They sought an utterance, Or sunshine soluble in institution, An orthodoxy justified, at once The dream and dreamer warmed in fusion, As in the great Rose Window, pieced from duty, Where through Christ’s crimson, sun Shines on your clothes till they take on Value and beauty. But carved on a high beam Far in the vault from the official version Gape gnarled unChristian heads out of whom stream Long stems of contrary assertion, Shaped leaf ridging their scalps in place of hair. Their origins lost to sight, As they are too, cast out from light. They should despair. What stays for its own sake, Occulted in the dark, may slip an ending, Recalcitrant, and strengthened by the ache Of winter not for the transcending. Ice and snow pile the gables of the roof Within whose shade they hold, Intimate with its slaty cold, To Christ aloof.