A book came my way a while ago: "The Poems of Rowen Williams." Does the name ring a bell? No? Well, this likable Welshman happens to be the Archbishop of Canterbury, not a bad day-job if you're a poet. His writing is no Sunday pastime -- he's the real thing -- and in terms of style he's very much a modernist. I can easily imagine hanging out with the guy, chewing the fat over a couple of pints, this good man with his big Santa Claus beard, and whose theology, as far as I can determine, welcomes the most harassed and unlikely pilgrims.