Lawrence Durrell
Greek Church: Alexandria
The evil and the good seem undistinguished,
Indeed all half asleep; their coming was
No eloquent proposition of natures
Too dense for material ends, quartered in pain.
But a propitiation by dreams of belief
A relief from the chafing ropes of thought.
Piled high in Byzane like a treasure-ship
The church heels over, sinking in sound
And yellow lamplight while the arks and trolleys
And blazing crockery of the orthodox God
Make it a fearful pomp for peasants,
A sorcery to the black-coated rational,
To the town-girl an adventure, an adventure.

Now however all hums and softly spins
Like a great top, the many-headed black
Majority merged in a single sea-shell.

Idle thoughts press in, amazing one —
How the theologians with beards of fire
Divided us upon the boiling grid of thought,
Or with dividers spun for us a fine
Conniving cobweb — traps for the soul.

Three sailors stand like brooms.
The altar has opened like a honeycomb;
An erect and flashing deacon like a despot howls.
Surely we might ourselves exhale
Our faults like rainbows on this incense?

If souls did fire the old Greek barber
Who cut my hair this morning would go flying,
Not stand, a hopeless, window-bound and awkward
Child at this sill of pomp,
Moved by a hunger money could not sate,
Smelling the miracle and softly sighing.