Recital

Miranda sat in the shadows.
The rustling harvest-mouse
Nibbled the wheat on the altar
In the gloom of God's echoing house.
The beetles clicked, the spiders wove,
But she sat with her chin in her hands
While the organist played on the ancient keys,
And she entered wondrous lands.

He played upon the Swell,
With notes both loud and soft,
And the shades of Bach and Buxtehude
Smiled down on the organ-loft
And Jehan Alain, who died in the War,
Came alive again to tell
Of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon
While Mark played on the Swell.

He played upon the Great
And the pedals thundered deep,
And Flue and Reed and Tremulant
Woke their forefathers from sleep
And acolytes trod the encaustic tiles
The Mass to celebrate,
Their candles reflected in oaken pews,
As Mark played on the Great.

He played upon the Choir,
Whose tinkling tone unlocks
A door of wood, all golden-brown,
And a strange and secret box,
Like a grandmother's jewel-casket,
Shed its light and sparkled fire,
While Miranda dozed in the shadows
And Mark played on the Choir.

He rose up from the console,
Extinguished the power and the light.
Her mother and sister stood in the porch,
Their faces tense and tight.
"Alone with a man in a darkened church,
And her so young as well!"
And they dragged her out of the shadows
As he silenced the Great and the Swell.