holy places

who am I to speak of your placelessness
when my own holy places still sustain?
places, from decades ago,
where we met;
and somehow still do.

yes, a few churches of course:
holy trinity in prince consort road,
lavishly embroidered with saints;
plainer chapels, old and new, at worth abbey,
[still, probably, the hub of it all]
and the side chapel in spalding parish church
reeking of polish and violent reform
(thirty years on, still a favourite:
a quieter corridor of snatched moments down my life)

outdoor places:
the tiny wood at the end of our road in crowborough
where, as a child, I built my first hermitage;
passionate teenage walks on tunbridge wells common -
(the path to Brighton lake!)

and indoors too:
one evening in the attic guestroom
in ljosvallagata in reykjavik
when you peered through the skylight;
and that astonishing afternoon
in the sunlit showers at the sundhollin!
(now that would take some explaining)

the mystery is this:
a time and a place,
once touched by timeless you
can shine again;
[in me!]

our secret.
[why do I so need there to be one?]