Caedmon

~ D.S. Martin a poem for the first poet of English There are certain times you're as comfortable as the babe settling down in the sweet hay of the manger & others when you see the harp being passed hand to hand getting closer to you song by song & as the music continues to swell the hands that are sure upon the hay fork become wet & tingly so you wipe them on your breeches & swallow a little of the monks' warm ale but it doesn't steady you or do anything for your swollen languid tongue & still the harp moves closer so you slip out to the stable to be sure everything's right with the horses though why wouldn't it be seeing you've already rubbed them down & picked their hooves clean although fresh clumps steam in the stalls as a large shape shivers in the darkness recognizing the way you move As his tail swishes & hooves clomp on the clay floor you reassure the beast & tell yourself as you settle in the straw you'll return to the glaring lamplit clamour of the feast as soon as you find your breathing But that's when the angel appears lifting you from a sleep you've fallen into like from a dark well & he calls you to sing You stammer a protest as Moses did but he calls you to sing a song of the creation of all things & that is the beginning