Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

Shifted from house to prison arrest,
from prison to the bright arena,
I was expected at each dim location,
pious, steadfast, my consolation
an encouragement for the blade.

I said that her killers blessed in shadow,
and she dreamt of ascent, of a ladder to a garden
where she cupped her hands for given milk,
where the trees were tall as cypresses
and their leaves constantly falling.

Hearing these things at her last meal
I cheered her with the certainties
of that sweet and near destination,
the pure line of her model forebears -
a mariner's rope about our church,

my eloquent testimony passed like a torch
from the raked sand of our African cities
to the cold marshes north,
the forest and river lands, the cool pastures
beneath their ales of snow.

And here at the afternoon festivities
I expected our solemn meeting of eyes
as secure comfort, a secret answer
to her preaching upon that faithless walk.
But my upright consuls betrayed me.

They had clothed her like Ceres, rich, stately.
Bathed in an incense that befuddled my sense,
they kohled her eyes and gilded her
so she glittered softly like water's fabric
as she stepped in her quiet to the gates.

And my response amongst the eager crowds
that bayed out loud as she was stripped
was not prayer, it was not prayer,
I did not join her brothers in prayer.
I woke to the taste of her mouth's sweetness,

to the dark and secretive courtyards
where the garden crop is gathered,
to slim vases and tall statuary,
the high torch at her bedside,
the raised cup of her hands.