Monthly Archives: August 2014

The Stork on the Steeple

The Stork on the Steeple‘s a story worth telling.
The parson of Dingle his dinner a-smelling
Came smiling and sauntering soft down the path
Like a hunter and hound return to the hearth
When the wind is a-whistling and wailing away
And a sullen and midsummer sun will not stay.
When the vicar caught view of the vagrant old fowl;
How he wondered and wished for the wisdom of owls.
So he went to his library to learn from its words
The best way of dealing with boisterous birds.
The unparalleled Priest in a Pother‘s advice
Was to leave them alone for they’d lessen the mice.
“You mistake”, said the fabulous fowl on the tower,
“To rid you of rodents o’erreaches my power;
The law of my life makes it Lent all year long –
Yes, I’m partial to parsnips and cheese with a pong,
And I’m grateful for goblets of gooseberry wine –
But on flesh of the furry I’ll feast not, nor dine!”
The surprised little priest had to pause and exclaim
“Your immaculate morals put martyrs to shame!
You’re a pillar of piety purest and chaste
And no cardinal’d accuse you as carnal in taste.”
So the frolicking fowl and the friendly old priest
Took their tea with a tall vegetarian feast.

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The Prodigal Son

The sun still low, but climbing quickly past
the reddened mountains, cleaving shadows cast
by mistless morning’s piercing shafts of light,
I broke my fast, shook off the weariness of night
and took the path that led to market town.
Despite the pleasant walk, I wore a frown,
though blackbird sang befit the marvellous morning,
for back at home I’d left my loved-ones mourning.
Forgetting such thoughts I set my face as flint
against the downs. My pocketful of kingly mint
me bade forget behind and led me to an inn,
midday’s quiet and friendly faces within.
I sat me down beside a ploughman strong,
yet soon I ‘gan to sense his face was wrong
and when he like my father smiled sadly,
I rubbed my eyes, and ran out raving madly.
A-running came I ‘pon a river’s banks
and looked to ford its guard of reedy ranks.
The shimm’ring pebble-white water showed the way
that I need go to reach that town today.
‘Twas late, I just arrived before the knell
of evensong and gates-a-closing-bell.
The way had longer been and harder, too
than erst, for easy ways are seldom true.

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Filed under God&me, Medieval