BY CHRISTIAN OWEN

From where I stood, the river Thames was a waterfall of men.

I saw them pause and stumble and press on again,

Slowly, labouringly, ploughing their way between

The mortared bricks topped with the glistening bulrush

That marks the way of barges up to Westminster.

Like men in the Old Testament, they passed to the gallows, 

The prisoners arriving: Queen Anne crying in her wedding-dress,

St. Thomas knowing that the cause was finally lost.

I saw them coming, before I could no longer see for the pain

Of blinding salt tears and prayers that crossed their wires. 

“Oh England, that was called Mary’s dowry, fair and pure—

Now thy priests are married, thine altars lean and poor,

And thou thyself despoiled by plundering men.

I too have shared the plunder. I too have changed.

Why doth thou calleth to me from behind the water-gate,

Behind the bulrush, why doth thy feet sound strange

On the cobbles, and the church doors clang? ‘Too late!

Too late!’ thou calleth, as I turn, and from behind

The chain-link curtain, am beckoned by a wavy arm

Dressed in black, the whining ripples of the wind

Singing among the upper branches of the plane-trees.

‘Too late!’ thou calleth, and the passage darkens and ends

And the familiar sound of footsteps moving away

From the door dies down. The rain descends.”