My god is in the breath of crows,
It grows and shrinks with the elemental wish;
fire with no link to the wish of man,
But it must be absolute, this god,
For when the mind is absolutely still,
It moves.

My god is in the breath of crows.
 May I not delude a self image to think
 He grows to grant my wish or wash my sin
 But let me watch in wonder as he makes his work

Wonder in this.

The sounds of holy night abound
 Kestrel calls and bells;

Drink the air, and the race for meaning quells.
 Let it in. Let it in or the calls will sound  like hollow tin
 Or gramophone circling its background dust,
 It must, replaced by must, by scent and sense;
 shell peeled pupil to reveal a deeper black,
 Shelled like fresh new peas, each orb of wonder.
 Wonder this.