Issue 18, Spring 1958
Francesco’s fingers must have had their say
About the blessed living near the Word
With waxen doll or with a beating bird,
While heavy oxen kept the cold away.
But here Duns Scotus’ bells shoulder the rain.
Chill incantation keeps a chilly choir.
Waiting for snowy birds, I dream of fire:
Poor devils tell me folds could not contain
The ragged beggars dancing in the wild
Till hooded voices hobbled in dark frocks
Praised them into our tidy looking flocks.
I would not dream so. When I was a child
My father sent me scampering after strays.
In lambing season we worked through the night
Within our dancing fire’s ring of light,
For there were many lambs to touch those days.