David Callin

 

1347

People are getting betrothed,
and wearing green,
and going on pilgrimages.

There is harvesting,
and hawking,
and amorous conversation.

The sky is unquizzably blue
but the saints are in it,
and they’re waiting for your call.

God is an edible presence.
Through his priests he greets us:
Bless you! Bless you! Bless you!

It’s 1347,
and everybody
is feeling fine.

 

 

 

David Callin lives, if not quite at the back of beyond, certainly within hailing distance of it, in the Celtic archipelago. He has had poems in several magazines, including Other Poetry, Orbis and Envoi, and online in Snakeskin and Antiphon.

 

 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


*