Swarm and Honeycomb
Kevin Crossley-Holland
Section ii is concerned with the Celtic-Saxon saints (such as Cuthbert and Cedd) of our east and north-east coast; section iii, takes its lead from the prayer ‘God be in my head’ – and it has been used in some local churches; section v refers specifically to St. Margaret’s and some of its features, such as the moving outline for a mural of the Virgin and the rather ham-fisted carvings of acanthus leaves, but not in detail to the outstandingly beautiful wine-glass pulpit; section vi remembers the way in which, during my childhood, wild bees swarmed in the tower. It quotes three passionate lines from the Anglo-Saxon poem, ‘The Seafarer’, and tries to show how the church has been a ‘cave of energy, and making, and sweetness’ in which the achievements of earlier generations empower the living.
This poem is the copyright of Kevin Crossley-Holland and is reproduced by permission of the Enitharmon Press.
SWARM AND HONEYCOMB
in memoriam Margaret Douglas-Home 1906-1996
I Mediterranean Saints
England's a-buzz with saints!
A cloud of purposeful women and men
hiding in sedilia and flaking rood screens,
cut from grey oak and sundry limestones,
impasted on rancid beef-fat and lime.
Abo the perfumer and Agatha with breasts
the shape of bells; Barlaam the shepherd
(also that Barlaam who never existed);
Cecily who withstood steam and heat. . .
These are our Mediterranean saints,
galleoning above us: a troublesome ferment
who led devout lives and often met bizarre
or excruciating deaths. But how few
we know, and how little we care for them.
Xystus the pope with a sword in his gut, .
Yves the attorney and the housemaid Zita . . .
A flying alphabet! Hermit and cenobite,
anchoress and tertiary, but also the almost
unsuspecting - as if you, or I, were obliged
by circumstance to speak out and die.
II Saints of the Foreshore
Who hum among bee orchids, wink and
wilt again with each wilting sea campion.
Who heard the German Ocean rasp, and suffered
draughts, damp cold and like punishments.
They grew into ground, stay-at-home pilgrims
drawing near with faith in the company of seals
and avocets; partners in stubborn understandings
with thrift and anguished hawthorn-trees.
Rinsing ascetics at the head of foundations
and kindly teachers of knock-kneed novices;
contemplatives islanded in their own cells,
distillers of sweetness, harvesters of God.
Celtic mothers and Saxon fathers: their piety
most enviable because uncomplicated,
though hard-won. But who said anything
should be easy? Not the crusted stanchions
on the foreshore, nailing together earth, sea, sky.
III Jesus of Norton
Infant of the bubbling spring
well in my heart.
Child of the sighing marsh
breathe in my head.
Son of the keen light
quicken my eyes.
Rebel of the restless creeks
tumble in my ears.
Disciple of the rising tide
dance in my heart.
Teacher of the gruff salt-wind
educate my tongue.
IV Half-Saints
Near as a heartbeat yet foggy and far
one bell swings in the high tower.
One heart beats and a modest crowd of folk,
some of them strong and all of them weak,
make a bee-line for church.
Collectors
of small change for good causes; doctors
of the heart; dependable helpers
who befriend the lonely; stitchers and quilters;
two Samaritans, not quite anonymous; makers
of church marmalades; aid-workers on leave,
leathery and haunted;
few of them known
outside their own communities, none heroes
or victims, but singular women, singular men
who expect the arduous and mundane
and avoid plaudits.
Lives of the spirit!
Bees circle them as they sleep.
V Crossing-Place
This is the house of the unspectacular
and invisible;
the threshold of some dream
or of something we once knew.
Kingdoms of the earth, sing to God.
This salt-bleached tower!
Who conceived it and who ordained it?
Who hired the master-builder and was he paid
on time? Who blessed the quoins?
Who moved the stone?
Kingdoms of the earth, sing to God.
Pulpits, rood screen, Virgin in outline,
acanthus leaves:
one gift for love
of God, another in memoriam;
this one a matter of appearances;
that, down payment on a passport to heaven.
Kingdoms of the earth, sing to God.
To step inside time
by answering the pulsing bell
our grandparents heard
and seeing stars
of sunlight at play on an ancient wall
is one way back, and forward;
to sense worn hands and lives
in fabric visionary or homespun
is to cross the threshold
scalloped by love.
Kingdoms of the earth, sing to God.
VI Honeycomb
A swarm of wild bees swirled around this tower.
They fizzed through the openings and nested
in the belfry. They made honey here.
Time-grey high-riser, bedded on the last ridge
before land yields: hive-home of purpose,
cave of energy, and making, and sweetness.
Here my heart leaps, my mind roams with the waves,
returns again to me, eager, unsatisfied;
a lone bird screams and urges me onward. . .
To line ourselves with lead is wrongdoing.
Guilt has its own place, but no less
all we have done and can do:
bright knots, women, men, releasing
and entwining generations: the gift
of the honeycomb fulfilling each of us.
VII Bee-Music
A naked woman and a naked man
laughing and playing catch-as-catch-can
on downy leaves beneath spring trees
surrounded by a whirl of white bees. . .
No! It has never been the same
since Eden. Guilt instead of game;
tearing thorns within each crown;
a ring of thunder; and the bees are brown.
Bur here at the hive, listen! Remember
as the bees half-remember.
They forfeited the words to the rising moon
but still hum the first, innocent tune.
Ring the bees! Tang the swarm!
Bring the storm in out of the storm
to rest on each lip and hand and head
and dress the spirits of quick and dead.
Bees without, saint-souls within:
light this your church and fly us home.
For more information about Kevin’s work visit www.kevincrossley-holland.com
St Margaret's Church, Burnham Norton - NHER 1770