Palm Sunday Floral Tribute

Tags

bluebells, espaliered fruit tree, euphorbia, Palm Sunday, tulips

Photos by Candia Dixon-Stuart

Sestina for Palm Sunday

Tags

Assisi frescoes, Balaam, Hosanna!, Messiah, Palm Sunday, Pharisees, Pietro Lorenzetti, Roman rule, San Francesco, sestina, Sion

(Pietro Lorenzetti, Assisi fresco: San Francesco S Transept

http://www.aiwaz.ner/panopticon/lorenzetti-pietro/gi58po)

 

 

So, if you are challenged about the ass,

just say ‘ The Lord hath need of it,’ He said.

I’m coming to them as a different king,

envisaging another kind of rule.

My humble steed will show them that the meek

will ultimately rule over the earth.

 

The disciples obeyed, but ‘What on earth

is He doing?’ they questioned. ‘A dumb ass!’

We hope its owner, when he’s asked, is meek;

remembers once upon a time, he said

he’d lend Him it.  For Friendship’s golden rule

is not to lend, unless it’s to a king.

 

Growing crowds cried:  ‘Hosanna to the King!’

‘Blessed be He who comes down to our Earth

in the name of the Lord.  O, let Him rule

We recall Balaam and his talking ass.

What miracle will there be next?’  They said:

‘It’s strange a Messiah should look so meek.’

 

The Pharisees were anything but meek;

were unimpressed by any kind of king.

‘The world has gone after Him!’ they all said.

‘They think their Saviour has come down to Earth.

Well, they are all simple peasants.  His ass

may well understand more of Roman rule.

 

This upstart seems to break every rule;

He affects to be quite harmless and meek.

We recognise reference to an ass

and how, sitting on a colt, Sion’s king

will come.  He’s announcing His reign on Earth.

We don’t like this Hosanna! stuff,’  they said.

 

‘Master, rebuke your disciples!‘ they said.

‘Who do you think you are that you should rule

over us?  We’ll teach you how to be meek.

Apart from Caesar, there isn’t a king.

Anyone who disagrees is an ass.

 

But the people cast cloaks before the ass,

acknowledging Christ’s rule; hailing Him King

and said: May this meek one rule forever!

 

 

Debatable Lands

Tags

barmkin, bastle, black market, Bonnie Prince Charlie, border control, Brexit, debatable lands, donkey sanctuary, Easter bonnet, First Minister, haggis, Independence, Lent, Northumberland, Palm Sunday, Pele Tower, Presbyterian, re-moaners, reiver

(image: fortified tower by mattbuck)

[This is a continuation of my Augustus Snodbury saga…]

Diana Fotheringay- Syylk was sitting at her scrubbed pine table in

the kitchen of her pele tower.  She was writing to the church warden,

to apologise for the mule-ish behaviour of the Palm Sunday rescue donkey,

which had slipped its rein in the procession through the graveyard and had

made a dash for the appetising trimmings on Mrs Digby’s Easter bonnet.  This

had not tightened the bonds of fellowship, even though the nibbled headgear

had been sported by one who had contributed to the donkey sanctuary in the

past.  No, she- Diana- felt responsible for introducing such innovative practices

to a staunchly Presbyterian congregation.  She couldn’t help thinking that the

bonnet was a little premature and should have been left until well after Lent,

even if its wearer was the church warden.

Diana would always be a stranger here – a Sassenach.  Murgatroyd might

have saved a prime example of architectural heritage for the nation through

his restoration project, but neither she, nor her husband were of reiver stock.

Oddly enough, her erstwhile lover and the father of her beloved daughter, Dru,

was of that lineage, so she supposed Dru could trace her roots to the ‘Debatable

Lands’ too.

She raised her head and addressed her housekeeper, Mrs Connolly, who was

peeling a turnip (or was it a swede?  The two vegetables had lexical differences

depending on which side of the border they were being consumed.  Another

grave divergence.  I kid you not.)

Mrs C, what do you think Theresa May signified by ‘Brexit means Brexit?’

Ach, jist something like I meant when Ah tell’t ma wee yin ‘Bed means bed!’

Mind ye, Ah usually backed it up wae a swift toe tae the….

Please, Mrs C!

But Diana chuckled inwardly.

She was trying to sort everything out for Gus and Virginia’s visit.  Dru and

Nigel would also be arriving for their end-of-term Easter break.

It had not been a year since she and Murgatroyd had renewed their wedding

vows. What an event it had been, with Dru and Nigel AND Virginia and Gus

tying the tartan knot, in a combined nuptial service. Ah, so much had

happened in a short space of time.

Virginia had offered to put her own house on the market.  It had been her

previous marital residence.  She was worried that house prices might fall,

or the £ might plummet.  She and Gus were ‘Re-moaners’ and proud of it.

They were contemplating re-locating to the Borders, now that they had both

retired from St Birinus Middle.  The problem was that they did not know on

which side of the border to settle.  For this reason, the Debateable Lands

attracted them, in order to hedge their bets.

Dru and Nigel both had accommodation at their respective boarding schools,

but they had been keen to renovate some outbuildings in the pele complex, as

a way of getting themselves on the housing ladder.

Diana was keen on this, as she felt Dru would only conceive when she was away

from the stresses and strains of teaching.  Grand-children were on Diana’s

agenda and she liked the idea of them being on site.  If things became too

riotous, she could always retreat to her fortified bastle and barricade herself

in.

The problem was that the Scottish/ English border ran straight through their

barmkin.

Should’ Sturge’ effect Independence, then to which Csarina should they render?

Would Murgatroyd be evicted from half his property and have to remain in one

half of his complex?

Diana had an idea.

Mrs C, what if we were to transfer all the property to you – you know, put it

in your name?  If we only had permission as foreign residents to live in

the country for a proportion of the year, we could move the furniture

to the other side of the room; stay over there and you could call us your guests.

Nae borra!  Mrs C nodded enthusiastically.  Ah dinna ken whit that wee ny-

eh, that First Meenister is goin’ oan aboot.  Her granny came fae

Northumberland, so she’s practically a migrant hersel’.  An’ some o’ her pals

look like aliens tae, if Ah say so mahsel’.

Onywise, when Dru has her wean, we can put the whole shebang into its name. 

It’ll be born here, Ah take it?  Ach, Ah hope it’s a wee boy: a proper Bonnie

Charlie.

If there is ony Border Control, we will make a killin’, sellin’ haggis, shortbread

and whisky oan the Black Merkit. if they come to inspect, or patrol oor border,

we’ll jist drag the boxes ower tae the far side o’ the room.

But no one down south likes haggis, Mrs C…

It’ll be a different story efter Brexit, ye’ll see!  pontificated Mrs C.  They’ll a’ be

starvin’ ower there. 

And her eyes swivelled significantly, as she directed her stare to the other

side of the kitchen.

Mebbe we can dae a trade in barrels o’ pickled herrin’ tae.

Palm Sunday in Salisbury

Tags

Arundells, Babel, Bishop's Stall, Chapter House, Constable, Creme egg, Dom Perignon, Easter, Jobseekers, Julian of Norwich, Living Water, Mammon, Mocha, National Trust, New Sarum, Old Sarum, Palm Sunday, patens, Pontius Pilate, Salisbury, Simnel cake, Ted Heath, University Challenge, Yasser Arafat

A re-blog as it is timely:

I can’t believe that it’s nearly Easter, shivered Carrie.

Quick! let’s go in and bag a table, I said.

Costamuchamoulah cafe was still doing a brisk trade, even on this

grey day.  Amazingly, the smokers were still prepared to sit outside.

We have the routine down to a fine art now: one gets into the queue while

the other nabs a table, much as the disciples snatched a colt.

Yes, Easter’s early this year, I commented, watching a child stuff its face with

a Creme Egg in advance of the Christian calendar.  It’s amazing how such

diminutive creatures can incorporate a whole orb of sickly chocolate fondant

into such a tiny aperture.

I bet they don’t know what Simnel cakes represent, I mused aloud.

What do they stand for? queried Carrie.  Then, seeing my expression, she

added, I’m sure I once knew.

That’s what I say during University Challenge, I replied.

Then I sipped my Mocha, getting a chocolate powder moustache.  You know,

it’s Palm Sunday tomorrow.  Are you going to go to a service? 

Try persuading that lot to get out of bed, she sighed. They used to like to see

the donkey coming into the church, though.  Sometimes they were convinced

that The Dean, giving his dramatised reading, was Pontius Pilate and it scared

them.

Yes, we used to go to Salisbury for the service.  That was when Ted Heath

lived in The Close. In fact..

..you have a poem about it, she smiled.

How did you know?

PALM SUNDAY IN SALISBURY

Polythene wraps New Sarum like an egg.

The sky above The Close is Constable’s.

Cream-robed clergy congregate in cloisters,

bespectacled, brandishing dried gray palms,

under a spire as tall as Babel’s own,

while new choristers mouth All glory, laud

and honour.. without comprehending laud.

The tallest lad hopes that his voice won’t crack.

Girl choristers have not been asked to sing today.

Some miniature Yasser Arafats

in tea-towels and trainers coax an ass

from a spreading cedar into the nave,

where all present pray for its continence.

True blue glass provides a continuo.

Ted Heath’s Jaguar, also blue, is parked

on a reserved space outside Arundells.

What if one should loose its handbrake

and say, The Lord has need of thee this day?

Meanwhile we make intercession for all

unemployed, under and over-employed,

while carefully noting the advertised

champagne breakfast on our service schedule.

Dom Perignon: a foretaste of glory.

The Jobseekers can sip Living Water.

Coffee will be served in the Chapter House

among the exhumed coffin chalices,

patens. The bookshop is doing business

in postcards of Julian of Norwich:

All manner of thing shall be well. Mammon

hasn’t felt stings from His whip of cords-yet.

The head which indicates the Bishop’s stall

has a triple face of circumspection.

The Dean and his ordained wife wear the same

as they stand on repro medieval tiles,

trying not to worry about their lunch.

In the cloisters a chill wind chafes faces.

A chair is overturned, but no tables.

Although we have received the sign of peace,

our palm crosses seem ineffectual.

We stick one on Ted’s windscreen, just in case

his residential permit cuts no ice

with the flaming Being at the Close gate,

who curiously doesn’t wear a badge,

but bears authority from Old Sarum.

He tends to let the backpackers pass through,

like Christians, still bearing their large burdens,

or as camels accessing a needle.

But Tory Faithful have to wait in queues,

backs turned to the Celestial City,

while Peter checks their National Trust cards

and the very stones cry, Glory! Glory!

Palm Sunday in Salisbury

Tags

Arundells, Bruckner, Chapter House, Constable, Creme egg, Dom Perignon, Holy week, Julian of Norwich, Mocha, Old Sarum, Palm Sunday, Pontius Pilate, Salisbury, Simnel cake, Ted Heath, Tower of Babel, University Challenge

I can’t believe that it’s nearly Easter, shivered Carrie.

Quick! let’s go in and bag a table, I said.

Costamuchamoulah cafe was still doing a brisk trade, even on this

grey day.  Amazingly, the smokers were still prepared to sit outside.

We have the routine down to a fine art now: one gets into the queue while

the other nabs a table, much as the disciples snatched a colt.

Yes, Easter’s early this year, I commented, watching a child stuff its face with

a Creme Egg in advance of the Christian calendar.  It’s amazing how such

diminutive creatures can incorporate a whole orb of sickly chocolate fondant

into such a tiny aperture.

I bet they don’t know what Simnel cakes represent, I mused aloud.

What do they stand for? queried Carrie.  Then, seeing my expression, she

added, I’m sure I once knew.

That’s what I say during University Challenge, I replied.

Then I sipped my Mocha, getting a chocolate powder moustache.  You know,

it’s Palm Sunday tomorrow.  Are you going to go to a service? 

Try persuading that lot to get out of bed, she sighed. They used to like to see

the donkey coming into the church, though.  Sometimes they were convinced

that The Dean, giving his dramatised reading, was Pontius Pilate and it scared

them.

Yes, we used to go to Salisbury for the service.  That was when Ted Heath

lived in The Close. In fact..

..you have a poem about it, she smiled.

How did you know?

PALM SUNDAY IN SALISBURY

Polythene wraps New Sarum like an egg.

The sky above The Close is Constable’s.

Cream-robed clergy congregate in cloisters,

bespectacled, brandishing dried gray palms,

under a spire as tall as Babel’s own,

while new choristers mouth All glory, laud

and honour.. without comprehending laud.

The tallest lad hopes that his voice won’t crack.

Girl choristers have not been asked to sing today.

Some miniature Yasser Arafats

in tea-towels and trainers coax an ass

from a spreading cedar into the nave,

where all present pray for its continence.

True blue glass provides a continuo.

Ted Heath’s Jaguar, also blue, is parked

on a reserved space outside Arundells.

What if one should loose its handbrake

and say, The Lord has need of thee this day?

Meanwhile we make intercession for all

unemployed, under and over-employed,

while carefully noting the advertised

champagne breakfast on our service schedule.

Dom Perignon: a foretaste of glory.

The Jobseekers can sip Living Water.

Coffee will be served in the Chapter House

among the exhumed coffin chalices,

patens. The bookshop is doing business

in postcards of Julian of Norwich:

All manner of thing shall be well. Mammon

hasn’t felt stings from His whip of cords-yet.

The head which indicates the Bishop’s stall

has a triple face of circumspection.

The Dean and his ordained wife wear the same

as they stand on repro medieval tiles,

trying not to worry about their lunch.

In the cloisters a chill wind chafes faces.

A chair is overturned, but no tables.

Although we have received the sign of peace,

our palm crosses seem ineffectual.

We stick one on Ted’s windscreen, just in case

his residential permit cuts no ice

with the flaming Being at the Close gate,

who curiously doesn’t wear a badge,

but bears authority from Old Sarum.

He tends to let the backpackers pass through,

like Christians, still bearing their large burdens,

or as camels accessing a needle.

But Tory Faithful have to wait in queues,

backs turned to the Celestial City,

while Peter checks their National Trust cards

and the very stones cry, Glory! Glory!