Frank Little At Calvary
I
He walked under the shadow of the Hill
Where men are fed into the fires
And walled apart…
Unarmed and alone,
He summoned his mates from the pit's mouth
Where tools rested on the floors
And great cranes swung
Unemptied, on the iron girders.
And they, who were the Lords of the Hill,
Were seized with a great fear,
When they heard out of the silence of wheels
The answer ringing
In endless reverberations
Under the mountain…
So they covered up their faces
And crept upon him as he slept…
Out of eye-holes in black cloth
They looked upon him who had flung
Between them and their ancient prey
The frail barricade of his life…
And when night - that has connived at so much -
Was heavy with the unborn day,
They haled him from his bed…
Who might know of that wild ride?
Only the bleak Hill -
The red Hill, vigilant,
Like a blood-shot eye
In the black mask of night -
Dared watch them as they raced
By each blind-folded street
Godiva might have ridden down…
But when they stopped beside the Place,
I know he turned his face
Wistfully to the accessory night…
And when he saw - against the sky,
Sagged like a silken net
Under its load of stars -
The black bridge poised
Like a gigantic spider motionless…
I know there was a silence in his heart,
As of a frozen sea,
Where some half lifted arm, mid-way
Wavers, and drops heavily…
I know he waved to life,
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poem by Lola Ridge
Added by Poetry Lover
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