Whatever claim on my pity she owed to misfortune,
Such gentle loving care did she give her boys,
Reading Tolkein to them, while they grew with nature
(One showed me his dear pet caterpillar), such faith
In their frugal but sublime future - that I blessed
My serendipity and tipped them for a fair wind
To that happy shore where free spirits won’t confound us
With their strangeness, nor the solaces of nature,
Imagination and maternal affection invite icy stares.
9, ‘Deus Pater, dear...’
The ninth, in a basket too loose-woven for eggs,
Pays for her mistakes with drops of blood,
Is told she is unworthy of that look of Christ -
As if Calvary didn’t reflect every human weakness,
But spilt milk crucifies. ‘Father, forgive them,
For they know not what they do’; and bairns know?
Surely it’s the sheep that leads the lamb astray
To learn the vanities that profane its heart?
An instrument of torture is raised, bearing
A Truth so sanguinary it was mighty to overthrow
All pharisaic, codifying and unforgiving priestcraft.
But Innocence pilloried is not the miscarriage preached:
Love now shines in no dark context,
As we lift off the velvet, to beautify our neck,
The gilded rack on which Christ died
(About as tasteful as a pendant of Belsen!).
By the same travesty of sacrificial religion
A feeling takes root in some families that little ones