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Peter Abbs

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The Pentacostal Flame

(after Pushkin)

Where the deserted roads criss-cross the open Downs
The seraph stood - a stream of bronze
With six shuddering wings and when he laid his hands

Upon my dazzled eyes I saw three circling eagles
And on the far horizon a heron
And when his palms shrouded my ears I heard bells

Ringing, distant thunder, monsters crashing under tides,
Seeds exploding in the cliff’s chalk,
Planets singing, juice sapping through ancient vines.

Then he opened my mouth and ripped out my tongue
To replace its fraudulence with a serpent’s
Wisdom.  It forked and quivered.  Next the seraph took

A knife and cut his way through my defenceless chest
To take my heart.  There he put
A red-hot coal.  It flickered.  Glowed crimson with its crest

Of fire.  I lay swooning at the edge.  And last I heard
God’s voice.  Go now.  Proclaim my name -
And scorch the frozen wastes of life with the pentecostal flame.

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