Miracle in Much Marcle
Another Easter poem, re-blogged
It’s Good Friday: we are driving eastwards
through drifted fields, where ewes have lost their lambs.
Arriving early at the church, its latch
gives mercifully and so we enter,
stumbling into a chancel of pure light.
Attention is diverted to others
who lie in a petrified majesty:
a metaphysical conceit in stone.
Where is the wimpled beauty, tight-buttoned
sleeve? We want to gaze on serene eyelids.
We’d like to witness Jairus’ daughter
miraculously wake before the end
of Time. This childless spouse, unknown daughter,
took to sleep, shutting out her father’s death
at Tyburn; his treachery with a queen;
his complicity in vile regicide.
Unprepared for absence’s disclosure,
we’re disappointed- not as disciples
who found a luminescent gardener.
There’s no grave mole-catcher to interview.
She has risen; there has been a Rapture.
We see that her heraldic tomb has gone
in the twinkling of an eye and no cloth,
no folded linen’s there- just vacancy,
where Blanche, her sins as white as snowy wool,
blank as a virgin, slept in innocence.
We read she has gone for restoration;
but surmise transfiguration took place
almost a millennium ago.
Centuries have tolled through her long fingers,
each bead once a prayer for deliverance:
for ours; not hers, that having been achieved.