(October 14th - The anniversary of the Battle of
Hastings)
Evening.
Outside the skeining stream
running over its bed
is stained blood-red,
the bright fall of flowers
splashed against grey stone
shocking the heart.
Inside it is all happening over again.
There is no defence against this invasive force,
no resistance.
Relentless truth, savage in its purpose,
is driven ashore by winds of perception,
is mounted on words of power;
imaged arrows shaft into casket hearts,
invading banners flame and whip
before eyes tired from the mind’s forced marches.
And yet,
wearying for peace,
men struggle to make a stand with the spirit;
on the edge of night they match the invaders
word for word,
prayer for prayer,
promise for promise.
Conquest accepted is not conquest.
Love gathers here and there,
succouring and lighting candles.
Only two invaders and yet
so many lighted
candles...
(August,
1987)
