The churches never got a hook
In me: the miracles, the clack,
The riddles of the theurgists
Left me profoundly unimpressed.
Now, sweet return of the repressed,
The rocky shore’s a Rorschach blot,
A random guidance element
I turn to, cosy and content
To deify a pretty view.
Did I create it out of mud,
Despising Yahweh and his crew,
Invent a nature therapy
To psychic order?  It would suit
My temperament, this hidden god:

To be a one-man heresy!