Christopher Stocks



world of green, where kings once stepped
from swaying thwart to swabbed mire
risking swamp fever and reeking priests to sift their souls

– only someone pulled the plug
and the sea lost faith with the land.
a lost island, lapped by grass

not sunk beneath but
risen from the waves
to leave, like leavened rocks

exposed and weathered on the shore
boulder-buildings: priest’s house, church,
barn and abbey all washed up
turfed out from their eely paradise;

yet when Christ beckons
Com up hether
in a moment of comic coquetry
believe me I’m sorely tempted.

Muchelney Christ