He will not rise again

Winter, 1170  

Boys descended London hills  
on skates made of shinbones. The lee  
was thronged with boats depositing,  
and merchants undertaking  
what business was left, by chills  
temporal sweeping through Time’s alleyways.  

The Mays and Aprils not yet come to greet  
his holiness, the Archbishop,  
since his return from France  
some twenty and four days ago,  
the low-born clerk was harrowed from his prayers  
by four knights of the royal arms.  
 
Swords were drawn and Thomas Becket’s blood  
and brains purpled the sacred edifice.  
He will not rise again, one of the four  
was said to say. But Becket rose  
and closed the broken ring,  
defying Death’s finality, and kings.  
 
A cult grew up around his grave, like wild  
foliage. Parent and child came  
to be relieved of ailments.  
A common thief castrated and blinded  
was made man once again.  
Women with dropsy, men with fever cured.  
 
And even Henry walked not on shinbones  
but feet unshod and took his punishment.  
This second Henry humbled by his crime.  
The monks gave their admonishment,  
and now three quarters of a thousand years  
have passed. He will not rise again. He will.