Larry's Blog

THE SEASON OF THE GRAIL

In the season of the grail a red bird
sings in the tree. The Madonna is covered
with purple, and great tall candles burn.

In the season of the grail a red bird
sings in the tree. The Madonna is covered
with purple, and great tall candles burn.
The red-cassocked altar boy
in white lace surplice, sprinkles
grains of incense on the hot coals.
It is the season of the grail. Holy, holy.

On hilltop crossroads, white houses have
frosted roofs, trees are bare, and
the good friday spell is here.
The bassoon labors through
a strain from Parsifal. All pure, serene.
Rats are in the alleyway
behind the Friars’ church.
A tree is decked with pastel rainbow eggs.
The homeless fill the streets downtown.

Holy, holy. I taste the wine of liturgy
finger the cup that echoes the vessel of old.
A shiver of alcohol - my thoughts turn from
Mount Olivet to Lohengrin, Tannhauser
pilgrims and crusades. In the pure Spring
in the purifying Spring, a red bird sings
in a tree. Frost rests white on rooftops.
The bare trees are still. When the wind stops
the incense rises straight. It is
the season of the grail. Holy, holy.