(St Peter's)

Southwest wind, blow
From Attenborough’s lakes
Clamorous skeins across
Till the starved spirit wakes!

Come from the four winds, Breath,
Until my spire’s stones
Cry out amongst the city’s
Valleys of dry bones!

Western wind, blow
And bring the soft small rain
Falling warm to wed
Body and soul again!

Robert Cockcroft

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Last revised 9th July 2005