Hymn

I

A cold sun traces
a Tyburn Tree
on snow gone crisp
with age.

II

He comes as spray on the wind,
     gray as the snow
     and as old
as the will of his ancestors.
He comes to sit at Tyburn.

III

     Consumate predator:
he leaves only feathers—
     dead as leaves
     beneath the shawl—
and drops of red.

IV

He is this morning’s sky.
He calls to redeem
     the coldness
     of earth and sky.

V

I bow upon the shadow Tree,
Kneel on the brittle snow
     melting from the
     risen sun
     at Tyburn.