She dips her kerchief
into a pool of still-warm blood.
It is the holy blood of the king
and it will stain her cotton lace.
Giddy at the sight of it she pushes
through the wailing crowd,
the counter-surge of the masked men,
the tethered faces of those who
are to blame. She runs with the blood-
soaked cotton, away from this place
and its blaspheming scaffold, stumbles,
falls, looks above: the sky gathers
with His anger. Thunder will gouge
and clap, expose her world for all to see.
She runs, runs with her bloodied
rag past swooning maidens,
boars and rabid dogs, into
the back-alley of her birth.
Still there is no escape from
the all-denying - their prayers
afester, their tears and screams,
the slop and darkness of the hour
branding each to their last day's end.
She enters a house and bolts the door.
In a bed beside a fire
a mournful child awaits.
"Here" she says, "by the blessing
of God, I have it...
that was found in his
sacred touch when living...
to lay upon your
sickened brow."
Comments
Beeme | March 2, 2010 - 20:56
I really like this and enjoyed greatly. I am learning of the English Civil wars, lately the execution of King Charles who I believe this poem is based on. A very unexpected ending, really moving.
I like the way you describe the atmosphere or aftermath during the poem;
"Still there is no escape from
the all-denying - their prayers
afester, their tears and screams,
the slop and darkness of the hour
branding each to their last day's end."
Beeme xx
Kilb50 | March 3, 2010 - 07:23
Thanks Beeme. This was written for the March Guardian poetry workshop, theme - Dates. I usually have great difficulty writing to order but working around a specific date seemed to do the trick! Maybe a future IP here ?
Belle Green | March 19, 2010 - 16:18
Excellent. Please check your e-mail or e-mail me:)Abctales print magazine:)
jennifer gentle | May 24, 2010 - 09:58
aye thats' ma pal mary, ken.