The Tablet Poem

Traps by John Duffy

They have the Father framed. The

Old Masters

dressed him up as Zeus – greybearded,

grim

on his thunder-cloud, weary,

betrayed

by his creation, tethered to his

throne,

thronged in by one huge choir. They

tell us

he’s itching for the day of days,

the last judgement, one big smite

to wind it all up, no distractions

from being worshipped forever and

ever.

They’ve got the Son nailed, hemmed

in

by rituals, protocols, sects,

justification,

vestments, scruples, canon laws.

They take and twist his words

into rules; baffled by golden roofs

and marble walls, he’s banging on

the door

to get out, recruited and paraded

by warriors who chant his name

but never heed their mascot’s voice.

They try to cage the bird: the dove

becomes a flame, the trace of smoke

a flicker leaves, the ghost of fire,

they clutch at what cannot be

grasped,

it’s just a draught, a breath of air, a

breeze,

a wind that bends flowers, shifts

clouds,

skites slates, topples oaks, troubles

seas,

spreads fire across grasslands: that

hurricane

becomes this whisper she whispers

in your ear.

John Duffy, born in Glasgow, has worked as a civil servant, social worker and bibliotherapist. Collections include Perpetual Light (Spout) and The Constancy of Stone (Nepotism Press).