Cherbourg, 983In awe, a Norman gazing through a stained-glass
Window in a church, I watch the winter sun
Descend behind a leaden skein of leafless
Branches just beyond my reach. That star,
A bright but feeble presence, exits, and the Norman
Bows his head. His maker's in retreat.
The long ships are no longer near. The voices,
Voicing foreign tongues, encircle him. The night,
Which is so long, has come, and ghosts
Will torment him in it, and he may choose
To perish. Wrapped in mail and isolation,
He unsheathes his sword. To fall or not,
I ask myself. The ships have gone.
My maker's in retreat.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Written on 2019-02-13 at 01:24
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