Poetry

Judgement 30

The crucifixion of the Lord was at

The Roman theatre near the Family Court

Where St John’s church is, that old ritual site

I could not make myself look at the Lord

We are not worthy to behold the sight

The soil and them who live on it are spoiled.

Below, among us, was his sad mother

I said: “Is that the Lady? Is that her?”

In spite of all, she was clean and right pure

And stood aside from everybody else

Dressed in a bright blue mantle, her long hair

Caressed her shoulders under a head dress

Looking toward her son raised in the air

As once she saw to me in my distress,

And simultaneously on those who ask

And do right when they set out on a task.

Her head was turned upward toward the cross

But my eye strayed to the other objects round.

My daughter said: “No fear, he will arise,

See how the last light fades without a sound

The point of light begins to fail our eyes.

Creation ends. All things have reached their end.”

There was no light. A gusty wind chute whirled,

Sucked in the last bits of the real world.

The visionary place where we were stood

Remained. I put my arm around the girl

And then the boy. We were still there, so God

Was also still there, too, despite it all.

This happened, everything as I have said.

It might be, there is nothing else to tell.

There was no light as at first there was light

And in the darkness there was no more word.

That’s where my adventure has its conclusion

I reached the destination of my life.

Except, when we were fleeing the destruction

Others had come along, trying to survive.

I did remember there was a procession,

Heraldic beasts and men raised from the grave,

Some chapters back, during the last judgement

To give their meaning to my argument.

The light the beasts shed on that awesome scene

Disclosed a table, a great slab of slate

Like cantilever rocks near to Snowden

On Tryfan jutting out at a great height,

But round and wide enough for many men.

While by their torches and the little light

I saw one pierce Christ’s side with a long spear

And after that, make use of a ladder

To take the God man’s body to the floor.

“These people are the guardians of Britain,”

My boy said, “We should watch and learn the law.”

The man they took down clearly had been beaten

And broken by the death he suffered there.

“Who are these people? I have not forgotten

That Jews and Romans murdered Jesus Christ

And took his body then laid it to rest.”

Four armed men carried Christ toward the slab

And laid him under, as it were a tomb.

The blanket that he lay on was wrapped up

To shroud his body. Then a woman came

Approaching him as if he were asleep

Arranging flowers, quietly, in his room.

Another placed a chalice on the stone

And next to it the spear, and it was done.

They all fell silent and took up their seats

A thousand of them, waiting for the day.

“Who are they? They are English and Welsh knights,”

That’s what my son said. So I heard the boy:

“They need that cup to put the world to rights.

Without the blood of Christ we simply die.

No rescue for men without that chalice

No afterlife for men in any wise.

“The sacrifice takes place in our country

The death and rising of God as a man.

Our dead take part, our ancestors, you see

And our unborn, our future, everyone.

Before the law was, we were always we.

And prior to the nation our unborn

Are waiting for their place upon the earth.

This man, the one sat there, is king Arthur.

“He joins in one the land, the tribe, the law;

And also holy sanctifying grace.

Defender of us with the means of war

To subdue and control our enemies

Because before all time the people were

And God confirms this with his sacrifice.

We have to wait now, for God to arise

And give us back the land which will be ours.”

This mystical discourse entered my ears

Too difficult for me to understand.

The children aged and passed through many years

While we were talking, that’s what came to mind.

But I refused to accept it, hiding my tears,

As if, by some covert divine command

They grew mature and bypassed all their youth

In hours not decades, but it was the truth.

“We share his body when he dies for us

And so we need his dying, shamefully,

Or else the human being perishes,”

My daughter said. “To fight Morgan le Fay

To face Satan, to cancel death out, is

The meaning of this high allegory

With England’s saints, with archangel Michael

But to believe it might not seem natural.

“We are an active sort of nationalty.

Few saintly, quiet meditative types

Have lived here to square up to cruelty.

Our holy men were always mythic tropes

The Church’s leaders were the royalty.

But active people have eternal hopes.”

And so we waited for the moment when

The Lord would rise and rescue us poor men.

The table, and the cup, the spear, the knife,

The tomb, the body, and the weary people

Were gathered there at the butt end of life

To face the final and inevitable

Darkness again. “Will God make from this stuff

Another world for us, a homeless rabble?

I do not know,” I said. But Holy Ghost

Was there and told me it was for the best.