Geoffrey Hill, in festive mood. Although I think I can get the gist of the poem, I frankly have no idea what it’s got to do with Christmas trees. The inverted commas around the title are Hill’s, and perhaps provide some clue. Answers on a postcard …
Bonhoeffer in his skylit cell
bleached by the flares’ candescent fall,
pacing out his own citadel,
restores the broken themes of praise,
encourages our borrowed days,
by logic of his sacrifice.
Against wild reasons of the state
his words are quiet but not too quiet.
We hear too late or not too late.
(Haven’t bought ours yet, by the way. Hope it’s not .. er … too late.)