It was a solemn time.
Flimsy strains of lost prayers
wafted through hung braziers.
The Lord, it seemed, was not
a kind father to this flock.
On hard pews, above feet
awkward on cold stone flagging
whose rough edges hid the remains
of fallen knights, suffered long
winter days, knelt supplication.
He, the more earthly master here,
walked with a slow gait, bent low
by the weight of the sad world,
its blood black ravens and sorrows,
disease, grey rains of despair.
The candles burned low.
It was difficult to find coins
to replace them in the dark,
and what flowers came in
from the snow wilted quickly.
The sceptre he carried was dull
in his left hand, blunted by tarnish,
much further from heaven than the
glorious gold of cathedral spires.
Why would the Lord look here?
The choir boys in shoddy garb
turned their adolescent faces
as he passed, waited in surly rows
that sniggered while the weak sun
shone through stained glass.
As he fingered the greasy pages
of his battered book of verse,
the sun crept closer to his feet.
Flat, he read tired words which
pulled him into dark despair.
Through the dusty air, quiet
but with the closeness of damp
exhalations, his sermon started
to pews empty of inspiration.
Rather, heavy with humanity.
But the sun touched his hem,
he wakened, the words flowed...
And he said unto them Rise up!
Rise up and fly with eagles
that you might touch God...
...and the blood of his
master was not enough to
cool the temper that took him,
nor the blood of his wife
and infant son...
The words flowed, though
he did not read them. His flock
sat up in their seats and the
weak sun which reached his face
turned him white and golden.
...through despair he marched
with strong steps, raising clouds
coloured red by the setting sun
so that people saw him pass
and knew him as a king...
...babes tottered screaming,
hordes pursued them and were
thrown into the deepest of pits
so that those blessed children
of God would be safe...
...and if you look to the Lord
you will be saved... he spat
at them, coming awake from
the Lord's tirade to see light,
wide eyes, frightened faces bright.
And through the building
the air was quiet and dull,
dust lay in crevices, candles
spluttered out, but here now
there was spirit that lived.
Then the runt sun failed
and clouds that had parted
came once again together.
The black was blacker than
the bloodied rook who called.
He turned to leave the rostrum
and, as God's vengeance left him,
left them all, he took his robe in
his hung hand and stood blank,
more lost than he had been before.
