Langenhoe Church
Where hills and marshes
curve into quiet debate
and skies clot into chilly cathedral air,
it smells of ghosts and bludgeoning still.
Gone now the church that nestled here
centuries ago:
the church of Langenhoe.
In the manor, legend has it,
at the end of the lane,
lusted the young girl
Arabella Waldergrave
after her lover, a young vicar
and a knave.
To this night they meet.
He warns her to remain discreet:
their embrace is frowned upon as
he’s only recently been ordained
and must protect his reputation.
Her satin slippers lisp along the lane.
Creeping ivy rustles in the breeze;
the sound of pages of the Bible
being turned.
Keys rattle in the vestry door.
A chink of moonlight
cuts the floor.
Her lover listens absolutely:
his fearless little goddess is with child.
He answers with soft, probing kisses.
Her lips are trembling.
Sweetest Arabella, with this cord I do thee wed.
See, I knot it with care:
wear it nobly,
as would a bride.
See: the loop is wide.
Dear husband,
I suffocate with love.
My mouth is dry as lavender.
For survival, I step from my body.
On nights to come
I’ll listen to your prattle from the pulpit.
My voices echo hauntingly.
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