This week we have ‘Corbel Angel, Southwold Museum’ by Chrissie Gittins. Gittins states, ‘Poetry is a tripwire into feelings and experiences which can connect me now across the centuries…’
Corbel Angel, Southwold Museum
I am the pain of ages,
rivers and crags run up my back.
Ravaged by the beetle
I’ve been watching death since 1476.
Found in a thick green bag
on a tall cupboard at St Edmund’s
my infestation was stabilized.
I take my wrongful place in this glass case.
My scarred mouth still murmurs,
my bitten nose still breathes.
The clatter of Dowsing’s horses
rippled my skirts –
split now, like cracked earth.
The high angels escaped, unlike the rood screen’s
twelve scratched faces.
I was not stained to match new timbers –
raised from a slab of local oak
I’m honey warm, longing for a glancing touch.
From my load bearing view
I could see snow flickering past the windows,
knew that day would follow thick night,
that light would catch the flèche
and glint on unknapped flints.
Here I have a simple mission –
I lean forwards, in anticipation
of anything you care to tell me.
I can hide your secrets in my veins,
sift your frailties into sand.
‘Corbel Angel, Southwold Museum’ is from Sharp Hills (Indigo Dreams, 2019).