AVERIL BONES

The Runt Sun

It was a solemn time. 
Flimsy strains of lost prayers 
wafted through hung braziers. 
The Lord, it seemed, was not 
a kind father to this flock. 

On hard pews, above feet 
awkward on cold stone flagging 
whose rough edges hid the remains 
of fallen knights, suffered long 
winter days, knelt supplication. 

He, the more earthly master here, 
walked with a slow gait, bent low 
by the weight of the sad world, 
its blood black ravens and sorrows, 
disease, grey rains of despair. 

The candles burned low. 
It was difficult to find coins 
to replace them in the dark, 
and what flowers came in 
from the snow wilted quickly. 

The sceptre he carried was dull 
in his left hand, blunted by tarnish, 
much further from heaven than  
glorious gold on cathedral spires. 
Why would the Lord look here? 

The choir boys in shoddy garb 
turned their adolescent faces 
as he passed, waited in surly rows 
that sniggered while the weak sun s
hone through stained glass. 

As he fingered the greasy pages 
of his battered book of verse, 
the sun crept closer to his feet. 
Flat, he read tired words which 
pulled him into dark despair. 

Through the dusty air, quiet 
but with the closeness of damp 
exhalations, his sermon started 
to pews empty of inspiration. 
Rather, heavy with humanity. 

But the sun touched his hem, 
he awakened, the words flowed... 
And he said unto them Rise up! 
Rise up and fly with eagles 
that you might touch God... 

and the blood of his 
master was not enough 
to cool the temper that took him, 
nor the blood of his wife 
and infant son... 

The words flowed, though 
he did not read them. His flock 
sat up in their seats and the 
weak sun which reached his face 
turned him white and golden. 

Through despair he marched 
with strong steps, raising clouds 
coloured red by the setting sun 
so that people saw him pass 
and knew him as a king.

Babes tottered screaming, 
hordes pursued them and were 
thrown into the deepest of pits 
so that those blessed children 
of God would be safe... 

and if you look to the Lord 
you will be saved... he spat 
at them, coming awake from 
the Lord's tirade to see light, 
wide eyes, frightened faces bright. 

And through the building 
the air was quiet and dull, 
dust lay in crevices, candles 
spluttered out, but here now 
there was spirit that lived. 

Then the runt sun failed 
and clouds that had parted 
came once again together. 
The black was blacker than 
the bloodied rook who called. 

He turned to leave the rostrum 
and, as God's vengeance left him, 
left them all, he took his robe in 
his hung hand and stood blank, 
more lost than he had been before.