Walsingham in Padua
by William F DeVault
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Rated "G" by the Author.
Print Save Follow
Recent poems by William F DeVault
Overture and Underworld
Revelation in satin and silk
gold and violet
49 degrees in LA
>> View all 37
The metaphor is taken from the years that Francis Walsingham, Elizabeth I's future Master of Spies, spent in self-enforced exile during the reign of Queen Mary. I have been in that position, more than once.
I have given my word.
Strange word, word.
It carries itself and more, boring eyes in the back of the skull
when you are full of your own definitions of honor.
It is said there is no use
in worrying about the water
when you are dying of thirst and you find it, bubbling up pure,
cold and with the slight air of the center of the Earth.
I have lingered enough,
bare feet calloused by pain,
denying myself and my desires. The fires a test of the metal
that is at its best zested by a kiss extended into madness.
I have broken with the past,
giving up more than you know,
accepting a new commission, a new purpose, head bowed
in humility that belies my arrogance and my skills.
You asked for me by name.
I am called back into service
of a distant liege who may keep me in foreign lands for a time
before acknowledging me at court, welcoming me home.
But I am grateful and ready.
I have counted the petals of the lotus.
I have tested the metal of my blade and my pen, obeying
the rituals that may seem arcane to you, but define me.
I will serve you until I fall.
I will not swerve or lose nerve
even if left, like Walsingham in Padua, to await the time
when all is to be revealed, I will stay true to my vows.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
The City of Legends