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Douglas Philips

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Poem

for Nicholas and Dorothy wadham

Silence breaks in the chapel like the last trumpet
On an ancient battlefield. The bell begins to call,
A bud of sound, its pealing petals
Falling on the smooth quadrangle lawn. The world is still
This Sunday morning as the stained glass windows spill
Light on the jewelled floor, warm tears of red
Wept in remembrance of our Saviour’s sorrow.
The lectern’s golden eagle snows dove’s feathers,
Peace in the blazoning brass, and angels hallow
The singing air we breathe. O father, mother,
Walking in your western counties where the sun sets
Today, and the world sinks flaming with its hold
Of horrors which the painted glass reveals, redeems,
Your blessing consecrates the years
Which build, like stones, this chapel’s centuries.

The well of the world is bricked with children’s faith
And man’s apostasy. The sun that buckets back
Cannot devour the slime or rinse the growth,
But the pitcher broken and the rope grown slack
Recall the good Samaritan we lack.
Here in this college courtyard you implore
The blessings which the saints explore.

Now time towers in your heart, your pulse tolls life,
Your statutes rule the world, the matin bell
Echoes in the sky’s shell your blood’s red wave.
Now two glorious guardians of this city, you, who gave
All Oxford all the glory of your soul,
Husband and wife, for sake of Him who bled,
Receive the burden of the dead.
It is not death to overcome these years
That off earth’s shoulders any gravesman bears.

Page(s) 8

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