Erlestoke Mummers
I must have been nearly nine
when the Green Man and good Saint George
visited our village
a gilded turk and terrifying horse
the doctor with his bottle and bag
and something very old
curled round the cassocks
slid between the pews
our vicar floated upwards
like a Chagall goat
lost all authority
the lectern eagle rustled its brass wings
and children ran between the stones
unrolling streamers
tying Fredrick George – beloved son –
to Martha Jane and Lady Ash
and drums and serpents
hurdy-gurdy groaned
beneath mad Percy’s face
now black as pitch
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