Leave us this little dish of peace

From The Spectator, May 6, 1995.

Almost a Child's Prayer
by Patrick Creagh

Early morning, unawares . . .
Before even the first whispers,
While the bowl is empty still,
The chaste pale space that no one shares.
No echo yet, no ache to feed it,
But very soon the early birds,
The vineyard-workers waiting for the minibus
In a light as white as curds.

Leave us this little dish of peace
Some little while, before it sours,
For what is sweet
For what is quick and sweet in this
Beggars are treasury of tears.