The fields from Islington to Marybone
To Primrose Hill and St John's Wood
Were builded over with pillars of gold
and there Jerusalem's pillars stood.

William Blake




for Sam Smith at the Church of the Pancross

In the top of the tree of life
singers, birds of the altitudes.

Suns, oranges of light, cascade
radiant nectars, honeys

Sweet past Adam's apples,
through each thankful throat.

There’s a dew which forms
on the sprays of the mind,

There’s a rain which falls
through a turquoise night,

A river too, symphonic
far below reflecting melodies.

Fine words mean nothing
when these songbirds give praise.

At the summit of love is art:
to sing the direction at last.

Raise your eyes upward,
once more bow to the heart.