Twilight at St. Deiniol’s

The death of day is birth of night;

Each day departs, without a fight.

As darkness shrouds the trees from sight,

None wonders if it’s wrong, or right.

As shadows slide across the land,

They trust in God’s immortal hand,

To come return them from the dark,

Each sunlit day, without remark.

But lightning strikes,

and trees are burned,

in ashes to black ground returned.

So God is free to start again

And so it is with trees,

and men.