(movement)

taunts sewn daily
beaming
a cluster
of ad-ages: history history history
will be sore-winged with
selective forgiving

A cast shedding envy
throughout Europe. oui ya sí
we gave them
a-needling to die for
couching ore sprigs
into brand ancient chasubles of awe
so much so they named it after us
         O-Opus Anglicanum
'England is for us surely a garden
of delights — an inexhaustible well' —
so sang Papa Innocent to our choral copes
and mitres.

what beauty we unravelled

(movement)

With every fibre of spin
Ministers of Misrule
thread-paint moral empires on their
sleeves. pink pink pink
go the shears at the wrists
on the edge of the wood

secular embroidery
— what stands still long enough —
catches trappings
banners palls purses
underneath and hidden linen
outre vestments
couched bed hangings
misleading cushions
runners
lips lying in wait
you name it
              O
           Opus!
and a pair of shin-new
leg-long buskins found
in a power-tomb in Canterbury
where a cathedral is

still

a metre of petersham
will
stiff out a great coat
with
sham to spare for
fair war

just

(movement)

stuckup on thorn hedge
hemmed in
broderie anglaise
capped
pearlies kink the may day
blossom floss
a fly pass is
buzzing her maj
at enormous expense
the sky streaks red white
blue
on blue

Intelligence born in sour light
cramps eyes guiding the gilt ~
a sequence of sequins
is a chain of glitzer
on the slope
going blind for an
        anthem is a song
                               too high
on a hot bright morning in
a strained voice
he sang
across the waters:

'we have not yet found shiny
pointy things we call weapons'

expert
embroiderers
finger their bodkins
weaving empires

upon time

threads get knotted

Dong! The history drowns.