for the Day 14th
feast day of St John of the Cross, patron saint of poets.
Legs crooked, back pressed
on the wall,
he looked sidelong at one among
that drinking company. This one opined
that they were all securely damned
in Gods forbidding, downcast, regal eye,
that broods on the sphere of his dominion,
unless they turned old age to shaky prayer,
and thus double-damned for premeditation.
Got up off the floor, dusted
down his thighs,
brushed the sawdust off his doublet and,
grinning a foolish grin, departed.
Only to lose his way in a bare pasture;
to lay his void head down on a plump tussock
under wheeling stars, spewing their canary
plentifully in the grass roots and, looking up,
to begin to praise the eternal
in iambics that almost came out right.
Lay Reader: an archive of the poetic calendar