Wednesday, 7 August 2013

Holy Island

Calves slaughtered, vellum prepared, oak apples picked -
without the wasp
the word of god would remain unwritten.

A shooting star cuts the sky in two.
An angel transports a soul to heaven.

This world is the work of the devil
and woman is his willing tool;
the hermit prefers the company
of the donkey and the eider duck
to that of the weaker sex,
and in the life and death
his body is un-corrupted.

Carry him now,
cart his coffin around the country,
establish his church at every station
along the wandering route,
and leave behind a trail of tall tales,
invented legends,
stories of piety
and saintly intervention.

Scribe, sharpen your quill,
scratch your mark upon the page
and record the works of a sky-god’s son
that lived in a hot and distant land.

The wind is whipping over the dunes,
and the tide is turning.
Porpoise and seals sing their songs to the sea.

In the beginning was the word.
So be it.
The end is

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