The Parthenon. George Hobson

well as the eons of time and unimaginable spaces of being.

      On you and in you,

      in your tender beauty,

      all God’s handiwork is mirrored;

      as I consider you with love, carefully,

      as I let my senses welcome you,

      joy sweeps away all nagging sorrow

      and floods the valley of my heart.

      Ode to the Moon

      That rock, the moon, is settled in the fork of an ancient oak tree

      Like a stone in a sling

      Waiting to be flung into the night;

      Or yet like a ball in a goalie’s hands, ready

      To be kicked downfield to the ring

      Of pale stars hovering on the edge of light.

      Unearthly, the globe becomes imagination’s playground

      And changes into anything

      At fancy’s nod: a round arena

      Holding angel choirs, say, who, white-winged, sound

      Notes from spheres unseen, echoing

      The sun, as recordings of an opera

      Carry voices of the original ensemble.

      Like gauze, the praise floats white

      On wood and field, bleaching the black

      Air empty of primary light, a-tremble

      Under the soft wind’s slight

      Flutter, like a loved cat splayed on its back,