Midnight Mass

I roam, not half-awake and now away,
Brought back to stand to sing;
The fourth port in the corner eye,
Where Christ will see his mother -
See opposite of meet -
Cross on bare back, strained, weighed down.

Behind them waits a soldier,
A cobweb strung between his wooden hand and wooden eye.
It sways and quivers.
I watch it through the bleak midwinter,
Don't brush it, wrong to touch,
But let it stand between hymns,
Stirring to the rhythm of our breath.

It's not important. No-one will see it
When the church is less full.