poem
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Brompton Oratory, a hot lunch-time in July, a baby being received into the Catholic Church and Catholic upper-crust society; dressed-up, a group stands round the font. Otherwise the building’s almost empty, save a scattering of oddballs dotted round the nave, the occasional stray tourist fleeing from the sun. A little girl in blue and
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As promised, here is my poem about Ivor Gurney Beside the son of his dearest friend, Their names linked still in death, A Celtic cross and an inscription to Ivor Gurney: a lover and maker of beauty. In low land between Cotswold and Malvern, A place he might have chosen, He knows the silence after
Virginia Rounding: Author, editor, proofreader, indexer 