It is morning in America, where I sit, wearing a cloak of mourning,

next to a packing case adorned with rusted grass; a coffin for a body, my body.

My hand holds My hand stained with finger prints of the beloved assassin’s hands.

Which airy scabbard now conceals her deception’s steel – the cause of this massacre? Is the amulet my body wears at the throat, her dagger’s handle?

In America, it is morning. In America, I am entombed in a bloodsheet.

<img src="static.flickr.com" width ="400" Photo by Joao

Like birds in their nest, Are ready for rest: And sport no more seen, On the darkening Green.

• from “Echoing Green”, in William Blake's "Songs of Innocence"

With dust of earth, and of night that is yet to fall at the corners of his eyes,

He walks with his shadow down the lane to sleep, for now, with his back resting against the shadow of the darkening, but eternal green.

...

Also consider listening to a performance/ service over at BBC of choral Evensong . It has been soothing to my body and soul on an evening that finds me sick.