At the Oxford Martyr's Shrine: Strange Platypus(es)

Latimer and Ridley

Stand in stone pomposity

More presumptuous

Than anything a Jesuit

Could create.

Merciful necessity,

the citizens agreed

to wrap them

In scaffold, planks,

and signs clearly marked:

Refurbishing.

Burning, burning, burning.

God help me, I cannot burn!

The Falcon raised the stones

of Salisbury by art magical

and built the ship yards,

and the castle.

Men call him

The Devil’s son.

Now, for a few infested sheep,

or a worm within the brain,

the megaliths are ringed

With hay and signs

(strange designs),

and certain warding

Chemicals.

Burning, burning, burning.

God help me, I cannot burn!

There is a fire in the eye

That catches on the blade

And peaked hats like

Church steeples rise

Amidst the iron glade.

The daughters all lie bleeding,

By the children that they loved

And stopped the bullet with

The breast

As did those mothers

Long ago

Who fell amidst the fire light

and snow.

Burning, burning, burning.

God help me, I cannot burn!

Surely, our forefathers were wandering Aramaeans,

But they ate manna in the wilderness and saw the works of God.

When all this is washed away

The River will keep flowing

Wei la lei

And the daughters of the River

Sing:

Be mindful of these bones

Be mindful of these bones

Wash them

Cradle them

Lay them in the earth

Till they lie

As thick as glacial rock

In the twinkling of an eye

They will be changed

I walked there among the graves at night,

Disconsolate

And felt them all about me,

Strangers, friends

And the somber father laid

His arm about my shoulder

And the weak maid placed a

hand upon my arm

About my legs, a cloud of

Little fingers pressed

And all whispered:

Courage sir!  For today we light a fire that will not soon be put out.

And all their faces were:

Burning, burning, burning.

God help me, I cannot burn!