THE HONIED BUTTRESSES OF LIGHT UPHOLD
[to St. Joan of Arc]
the honied buttresses of Light uphold
the dream cathedral where the reluctant King is crowned
no longer evading, disguised
and testing her surmise
still in her dreams she stands apart
legendary beyond all powers
cast in a rose and lilied art, shadowed by her saints.
the honied buttresses of Light uphold
the dream cathedral where the reluctant King is crowned
no longer evading, disguised
and testing her surmise
still in her dreams she stands apart
legendary beyond all powers
cast in a rose and lilied art, shadowed by her saints.
I envisioned her so oh but
no longer the maid of private hours and orchards.
no longer for her the intricate shade
of the Fairy Tree of Domremy
but she must leave, Heaven sent
with the white tree scattering
last, the lights of home, sweet petaled farewells...
in battle,clarion clear as the banner she unfurls
we imagine her but barely,
anticipating wounds and then, demise, or victory.
but surely I think, (reading as a child)
there must be some mistake.
a maid so mild
there must be some escape.yet
how could she dream this full a betrayal
kings and clerics on every side: deriding,
peculiar inquisitions, fire and no flight at all
taking centuries to recompense- but hardly-
with statues, with ceremony, beatification
the songs of the little French children
laying wreaths.
oh grief.
the girlhood lent and savaged
with a cruel intent
where she meant only kindness, flowers,
freedom.courage. the heart unlatched to God;
holiness of nations.
mary angela douglas 14 november 2014 rev. 23 january 2018;15 may 2024
no longer the maid of private hours and orchards.
no longer for her the intricate shade
of the Fairy Tree of Domremy
but she must leave, Heaven sent
with the white tree scattering
last, the lights of home, sweet petaled farewells...
in battle,clarion clear as the banner she unfurls
we imagine her but barely,
anticipating wounds and then, demise, or victory.
but surely I think, (reading as a child)
there must be some mistake.
a maid so mild
there must be some escape.yet
how could she dream this full a betrayal
kings and clerics on every side: deriding,
peculiar inquisitions, fire and no flight at all
taking centuries to recompense- but hardly-
with statues, with ceremony, beatification
the songs of the little French children
laying wreaths.
oh grief.
the girlhood lent and savaged
with a cruel intent
where she meant only kindness, flowers,
freedom.courage. the heart unlatched to God;
holiness of nations.
mary angela douglas 14 november 2014 rev. 23 january 2018;15 may 2024
