The day begins dark, heard only are angels singing

Supposedly heard; a good word, and a good beginning

On the tops of the mountains above drowsy Abergavenny

Silent snow covers, spreaded-coverings, leaning lengthened wisps

Saluting the fallow-realms, dissevered in spite of much-felt presence

Lands which the mind-forge sets to adventure, strangenesses expose

Like as stand trees, gesticulating tall, sky-heavy winter-standards

Stood sentry-like, stock still, but for the nodding, pulling airs

In the gardens of strangers, in parklands rooted, soberly-stood crowned,

Together aware conspiring attirings for glad-coming

Gently, virtually, all of the wide world revels as other; separate

Sun comes in fun-run majestic, slips from out remote far-eastern halls

Ball, all of light, it shivers, mirrors soft wet-dotted pasture

As waking the houses clatter turns-out to field day’s pitch

Day-bustles sorbably, takes all reverence worlds away; replaced, excises

Too much caught-up in self-involved imprisoned freedom’s tight arrays

Tied-tasks, set schedules bark, commute continuous roundelay

Where orders stir-up adrenaline so the fleet foot swings its sway

Lives dressed in synthetic fabrics, whilst wide wefts of welcome shine

Unnoted, but close to apprehension; singularly upwards climb

Over the tops of Skirrid, Sugar Loaf, as something wondrous not too far

As boardrooms think, sentence enclosed, against faith’s angling vine

Which threads, goes out a-gathering gracious signs to sentience

Curling through earth, as seashell-like; draws foggage from debris

Such scoops bare marrowfats divine, acute sublunary things;

Such hopes encounter evening as the homing dove has wings

The days ends in dark; heard only are angels singing

Supposedly heard; a good word, and good beginning