Well, Francis, Where’s the Sun?
They buried him in this complete basilica
But let him roast the Umbrian countryside,
Brother Sun, baked as hard as silica,
With Clare, as clear as conscience, by his side.
But where’s the sun today? Its canticle
Is sung by orphans on a pilgrimage.
The sun’s not in his high conventicle
As Maga bends to wash the feet of Mage.
Brother Wolf and Brother Body, pity
Brother Sky’s minute particulars,
Which must conceal in serendipity,
The love that moves the sun and the other stars.
from Afterburner (Picador, 2004), copyright © Peter Porter 2004, used by permission of the Estate of the author and Macmillan Publishers.