Sunday Morning

When the damn din of kirk bells stops,
she can hear the Great Tit chime
and she goes into the Spring
and her back offers bright pearls
as her shovel turns the earth,
unveiling golden tubers;
turning up wriggling rubies
for the blessed blackbirds,
hungry gold mouths of god,
to turn into bright song.

Whiskers grow from the rose spout
of her can of libation;
droplets quest, among petals,
to quench the heart of a rose
and roses rain and shine
upon her life of grey tarmac,
so she offers a bright flower
to the god who sleeps on pavements.