A Letter Home
 for Kenneth Palmer, organist
 
Today dawn came over the French
 Baroque garden with the dreary birds'
 Relentless chatter in the shrubs.
 They drenched the armless mermaid
 in their bathing, cracked
 The skin of ice that wrinkled fast the face
 Of water stealing stars from space,
 And stirred the pool into a thousand mirrors
 Struck with gold.
  
 A month ago the elms were flames
 Burning among the pines.  
 The wind now hints
 Of sleet and snow; the arrowed chapel dove
 Appoints north to lord the air
 While prints of summer leaves are 
   pressed like yellow gloves.
 (Five fingers spread a moist caress on stone,
 Now nailed by slivers of frozen sun.)
  
 But even spring is bitter in another
 Country, on the other side of winter.
 On the gentle slope outside the window
 A cup of shade held last year's leaves.  
 On the forest's edge
 New blooms scattered beneath the jackdaws
 Storming the fields and woods;
 I must go home.
  
 Each day I bend into the crowded street
 And twist and turn the crooked way to church.
 In overcoat I mount the bench and search
 For Bach
 With groping hands and far flung feet,
 Until both Bach and I are out of wind
 To fill the pipes.  And still behind my mind,
 Though every atom is involved (a whole man
 Wants it so), though truth is at my fingertips,
 The host of diehard queries linger
 Hushed and tense: and always blazing
 Green and blue, Saint George has neither won nor lost
 The stained glass war of good and evil.
  
 I came here for answers and found
 None; the cobblestones beneath my feet
 Whisper questions; voices on the wind
 Inquire in susurration at the window.
 The mermaid shushed by snow, my Venus
 Headless in the courtyard – these, 
   all heavy footnotes
 Starred to my attention,  tell me all 
   I have learned: 
To fail in loving is the great defeat.  

Metz
Winter 1963

Patrick

Patrick Meadows 1934 – 2017.