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Somewhere in Norfolk, a parish church
perches on what passes for a hill.
We stop the hire car there, look around,
get shown The Miraculous Candles.

They stand either side of the altar:
head of each crowned by twelve waxy thorns.
‘The Apostles,’ the vicar confides,
‘and the black one on each, that’s Judas.’

No matter which candles he uses,
‘the altar ones always burn like that.’
Then he shows us five more miracles,
and by eventide, we lose our faith.