The Use of Weapons

I warned them, saying I could not endorse
The use of weapons in the Temple grounds,
But they were adamant, called out the hounds,
Arrested me and, with unseemly force,
They planted me face down upon the gorse
Beyond the wall. My bloodied head still pounds,
And I can hear all those uncanny sounds
The dogs and weapons made — if that’s the source.

There might be ghosts, here in the greenery;
Your weapons and the dogs are never sleeping,
Their stony beds cold, and their masters creeping.
The sharp rocks that surround the deanery
Protect nothing. There is no scenery,
Nothing but secrets, falsehoods, and rough weeping.

Again the End of Summer

Again the end of summer is in sight:
The air grows cooler and the days grow short,
The moon grows dim, the sun is down a quart
And, just before they fall, the leaves grow bright.
We’re waiting for the worst, a winter night
Dark, cold, and miserable. One sad report
Has me asleep, but with a snore and snort
I keep my love awake. She starts a fight.

The warmth is gone now, and it won’t be long
Before she turns her lovely back on me,
Insisting that I share the misery.
I try to wheedle, sing a pretty song,
Tell her she’s beautiful, tell her she’s wrong,
But winter’s coming, and that’s all we see.

Sound Investment

I made a sound investment, late last year,
Now bearing fruit — that’s money, boys, not cherries —
Allowing me to fill the reliquaries
With good bones and a proven Virgin’s Tear.
I almost bought a Roman soldier’s spear,
But this guy claimed he’d said sixteen Hail Marys
In sixteen seconds. I threw down two sherries,
Looked at the goods twice, and threw myself clear.

So now I’m still holding plenty of cash,
Debating if I’m hearing the word, “Hark!”
Or just a hopeful echo in the dark,
Sudden belief, too true or just too rash.
I want to think this bit of silver ash
Was once a Burning Bush; see this odd mark?