Baptism of Fire
Today the tiniest one of all,
shawled in satin and lace
faced the flashbulbs and the fontwater,
the fumbling and mumbling,
poking and prodding,
with consummate equanimity, ignoring
the incantations, cakes and canapés,
sleeping and smiling through it all.
I used to pass the place where
I was christened, on my way from school;
open to the public, and to the elements,
one wall was still standing, and bits of others,
pretty golden baubles dangled
from what was left of the roof.
I was never tempted to venture
into that ruin, whispering its mysteries
to a sleepless world.
Little Custard, flaxen haired
boy pugilist, playground fighter-pilot hero,
played there sixty years ago,
in the shattered shell, safe as houses,
except for one brick in the transept.
Blessed by the fallen angels
in the sunshaft morning light,
bathed in the holy dust, touched by golden rays
through the last panes of sainted glass,
he sleeps the everlasting sleep.
shawled in satin and lace
faced the flashbulbs and the fontwater,
the fumbling and mumbling,
poking and prodding,
with consummate equanimity, ignoring
the incantations, cakes and canapés,
sleeping and smiling through it all.
I used to pass the place where
I was christened, on my way from school;
open to the public, and to the elements,
one wall was still standing, and bits of others,
pretty golden baubles dangled
from what was left of the roof.
I was never tempted to venture
into that ruin, whispering its mysteries
to a sleepless world.
Little Custard, flaxen haired
boy pugilist, playground fighter-pilot hero,
played there sixty years ago,
in the shattered shell, safe as houses,
except for one brick in the transept.
Blessed by the fallen angels
in the sunshaft morning light,
bathed in the holy dust, touched by golden rays
through the last panes of sainted glass,
he sleeps the everlasting sleep.
Page(s) 39-40
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