The flames of Tabor
John Clare Stokes
Beneath a freezing Luna moth moon
The Arsonist was darkly drawn
Drawn yearning for anything burning
The old wooden right door opening
Strewn on worn hand hewn planks
Hymn pages beneath empty pews
Blest be he ties and binds the kindling
For flames in December darkness thanking
At Tabor today no Holy flame dwells
Just a deep, deep dry well
Beneath the Oaks on Sundays now gathering
The mice and moth of the lost Congregation.
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