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My third posting of poetry I like by other people.

Maybe a nod to Philip Larkin in this one?

 

It doesn’t come easy.

 

In spite of it all,

I can’t help pushing open

the doors of country churches;

shoving a coin or two

in the box on the wall,

paying twice over

for the leaflet I take.

 

It doesn’t come easy.

 

Wandering among gravestones

is irresistible;

departure is almost

impossible.    I delay

it over and over

to hear once more the song of the blackbird.

 

It doesn’t come easy.

 

As I race back

into the modern

rationalistic world,

I think of cathedral towns

and country rectories

and gentle rectors’ wives

arranging the flowers.