The Holy Feast. (Lancelot Andrewes). First rough draft of this poem..

The saint`s tomb is buried in Autumn flowers,
cut down at dawn, the dew still on them,
but soon to lose all colour, all fragile scent,
under the Caen stone arches, the delicate rib vaulting
raised in record time by pilgrim monks,
who had tramped the rain sodden tracks
and braved wild seas to London,
in a world where the horse was worth more than a wife,
a bull more than a serf;-
and the sailing ships were equipped with narrow oars -
their single masts and dragon prows
made nervous folk recount old battles fought with Vikings.

These flowers are little martyrs picked to sanctify
those honoured words, first spoken by the saint
at Christmastide
to jostling festal crowds
when vicar of St. Giles in Cripplegate.
These flowers represent an ancient pagan custom
revived to add some grace to modern times,
their heads lopped neatly off, just like a recusant priest`s
                                                               at Tyburn Corner,
although our saint died snugly tucked in bed.

But it is that girl, standing silent in the crowd,
her appearance innocent as a Van Eyck angel,
who captivates my gaze,
disrupts my quest for peace.
A lonely figure, the only person standing,
she holds a taper tight in trembling fingers
as she looks straight at the altar, the gilded reredos,
her blue eyes bright with tears.
She reminds me of my friend who played St. Joan
so truthfully she could have been a sister
acting out the family tragedy:
and for a moment I feared that girl, so pale and silent,
intense and statue still amongst the throng,
could face a judge, a shrewd inquisitor,
with all the power of truth that steeled St. Joan,
and become a modern martyr.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 26th. - 29th. 2016. - See February 2017 for completed version.

Note. The congregation sits to pray where monks once knelt or stood.