All these fears came here,
The agony, the misunderstanding,
The hope, the joy,
The ordinary follies
Of good love and bad;
They’ve spilled away
Into the waiting earth.
Just this echo sounds,
Fading.
The angel’s swift kick sent you reeling
Into the churchyard – it was your time
Though you yelped in surprise.
Was that you, slipping through the gate?
I couldn’t tell,
For the tears in my eyes.
Row upon row,
Field upon field,
Rise these stelae.
Long and short,
One upon another,
Lovingly marked
As if to banish forgetfulness.
“Goodbye, fare well
On your long last journey.
We shall never forget you.
But just in case,
Here are your particulars.”
Richard Lionheart’s heart has been exhumed, and, although to dust it has returned, what remains is mingled with creosote, frankincense, and numerous other fragrant herbs. The point seems to have been to preserve it and make it more attractive to God, who, as everyone knows, is easily fooled. Inspired by my friend Elaine Stirling, I thought I’d write a short poem in 12th century style, a low bar to clear, judging by this fragment:
Right, then:
King Richard had no heart so pure
It could be sent to all anon
As unadorned as baby’s bum
For God to fondle as He choose
It lies in France unaccidental
But in such company as befits
A king whose heart was torn
Twixt kindly deeds and murder
All tars and herbs the nose to please
Surrounded Richard’s organ
To no avail it seems
‘Tis naught but reddish dust these days
Maybe Prometheus could pull it off
To swindle Zeus with fatted bones
But God these days is wiser
Having seen enough of Europes’s kings
exiles child 