After Philip Larkin

From 'Church Going'

...And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.

Surprisingly, perhaps, this serious and sombre poem spawned a romantic effort from me, entitled 'Standing Stones':

So, twelve weeks to go, and now the stones,
Standing tall as ever by the stars,
Diminish to the eye. Or do we grow?
It's permanence of stone that let's me know;
Reason that insists the vaulting spars
Are far as ever from the melting bones.

The space below is difficult to fill.
With sound it may be possible, but air
Is far too insubstantial, like the light
That sparks in isolation. Well, alright:
We'll have to fill the vacuum with prayer.
Not that prayer is needed, but we will.

It somehow seems appropriate to me
That as we grow together, we expand
Sufficiently to occupy that space.
Between the standing stones I'll take my place,
Encircling your finger with a band,
And say a prayer: to 'eternity'.

All of which would be far too 'soft' for Philip Larkin, I suspect!