Paterfamilias Rogerus, of Hampole

And he that schal falle on this stoon, schal be
brokun; but on whom it schal falle, it schal
al tobrise hym.
Matheu, XXI: 24


A slab from quarry at Stubbs.
Hauled from tumbril, tackle
snagged, and snapped: it dropped
like a hawk – sweet Saint Richard!

And rose like a lark, setting itself
in place on tomb. Roger dabbed
small blood and crossed himself –
a cartload of lead, a hairstreak’s wing.

Flame fraying to mouldwarp
darkness. Beeswax wilting.
Choir glowing like a stove.
Fen-wolf, distant: compline’s descant.

Therfor thei token Jeremye, and castiden
hym doun in to the lake of Elchie, […]
wherynne was no watir, but fen; therfor
Jeremye yede doun in to the filthe.
Jeremye, XXXVIII: 6


Followed the football, fell.
Face-down black muck,
sucked black water:
askr, flittermouse, tade.

Hole in Cuthbert’s earth,
a small one: Mamma pumping
his chest and shrieking
to Mary, swiping off worms.

The undertaker’s rule: two cubits,
a candle for Richard. Lauds,
the light extinguished –
her dead boy quacking like a duck.

Lord, saue vs; we perischen.
Matheu, VIII: 25


Drowned thieving from fish-traps.
Gaffed to the bank
by punting bargees –
glass-eyed, gaping.

Swan-complected, scabbed with leeches,
oozing like the fen.
Maids tore weeds
and wailed to Richard.

She hiccoughed a frog;
eels squirming from her petticoats.
In Hampull’s chapel,
her guttering candle flared.

Effeta, […] Be thou openyd.
And anoon hise eris weren
openyd.
Mark, VII: 34-35


Sunday disco, Hacienda:
mirrorball, Hazell Dean,
drink-drive XR3 –
searchin, lookin for love.

Gary Davies back-perm DJ –
oooh. Mandy does/Mandy doesn’t;
back-room snooker, potting
the brown and the pink.

What? Puking by the bins.
She sucked her finger
and poked it in my ear –
better move on down the line.

Nether this man synnede, nether
hise eldris; but that the werkis
of God be schewid in hym.
Joon, IX: 3


Wall-eyed Belle, mad
as a sheepdog. The good one,
wholemeal partridge;
the oddball, starling-blue.

Widowed and witchy, drawing
looks and slander, walking
into doors. She needed a man,
and threw herself on Richard:

who understood her agony,
prostrated on his tomb;
her joy as moon-pie split
to vision, glossy as a conker.

Ryse vp, take thi bed, and go in
to thin hous.
Mark, II: 11


Dirt-track junction, snarling
quadbikes. Cigs, Lambrini,
TLC – Cake Boss,
Bride Wars, Tit-job Dreams.

Richard in hermit’s habit,
advert usurping – seemples!
Up she stood, put her foot
through the flatscreen.

A miracle! Tell the neighbours,
he said. She entered the Brookside
fun run. That was a laugh.
Even the winners were cripples.

For thou, Lord, liytnest my lanterne;
my God, liytne thou my derknessis.
Psalms, XVIII: 29


Ague from stank, or Satan:
in truth, we are infants,
knowing nothing. But writhe
did my legs like serpents.

And vomited. Flesh sweating
like cheese. Three days,
three nights – alma redemptoris
mater – save me.

So little the Saint needs:
two pounds of wax
from Hampole’s hives – the kiss
of his fingers, warm as comb-honey.

Thei schulen do awei serpentis;
and if thei drynke ony venym,
it schal not noye he.
Mark, XVI: 18


He drove the cattle from the corn
and roared onto the common.
Lad blue among anthills,
quivering like a windflower.

Three days he sweated on his pallet,
eyes rolling like cauldron dumplings;
until they swore by the Virgin
to give thanks at Richard’s tomb.

Whereupon he sat up. And the wesil
slew the adder in the shelduck’s cave,
sucking his goldpots – smashed
alabaster, whorled in groping muck.