The red heathen faint beneath her skin, she kneels;
dark as a pagan brooch the shade around.
Nightbrush, God in a myrtle tree, the wine of wonder
- all three my delicate lady.
The bird in her curved eye, grey and lively, rises
in troth to bread and the holy goblet.
Beautiful peasant, moon-made and carnadine
- both my delicate lady.
Hers the vision inward, substance of love luminous,
sun on western fields, the smile of Glastonbury;
bird-call, hill-shine, maid of St Bride for all
- all my delicate lady.
Eric Ratcliffe
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lady-kneeling-for-holy-communion/
