BY AVELLINA BALESTRI

(For all English Catholics, for the Feast of St. Thomas More)

Christ is slain in the flesh, I thought

In Oxford’s heart, where all was still

His wooden slumber reigns, I thought

Where Campion’s flower blossomed.

I love this land, and love her dead,

The ghosts are close enough to kiss,

And rumors of relics filled my ears –

Was Becket’s ring recovered?

I heard the birdsong in the hedge,

Like their chorus once upon a June

When More held fast and lost his head

And the seasons keep on turning.

I sang to the sky of clouds that part

And stars that sparkle, cold and clear

I thought on Alfred’s Mother of Men

And the waves rising higher.

For this is her dowry, rich and rare

Christened twice, by rain and blood

Where beads are yet told in softest tones

“For the quick and the dead.”

This is the land of exiled souls

And secret sacraments received

Perhaps the many have lost the way

But the few yet remember.

You can see them there, the martyred host

They grace the oratory’s walls;

You can read the words of sweet Therese:

“The earth’s thy ship and not thy home.”

But in this place of time undone

The ship seems moored, the kingdom spied

My finger, there, could trace the Cross

As the vespers hailed a victory.