He has lain in tomb four days;
winter’s disease took him.
Now what’s left
surely decays;
make peace with inevitability.
The monastery was burned again,
the place of study became charnel house,
yet those fierce raiders
failed to see
what was most precious;
they couldn’t kill the memory.
His relics are still with us.
Before more plunderers arrive
we shall be gone as
snow in spring sun.
We go to the cave for sanctuary,
he comes from the cave defiantly,
love draws him out compassionately,
shielding monks as they journey,
carrying Cuthbert’s radiant sanctity.
Setting out on spring’s first day,
from the island to first resting place,
we can look back see abbey ruins,
while blackbird’s song urges on;
He shall come again
touching trees, making them bud,
giving voice to undying humanity
as civilization drunk staggers,
ignorance profanes learning’s temple,
our saint shall find new home
and Lazarus return anew to
wife and family; season changes,
arising with daffodils and blossom.
Common dream transformation,
reawakened human imagination.
© Phil Kemp 2026
