Pete Crowther Poems

I have a wondrous tale to tell
About the good Saint Gura’El,
The strangest saint I know by far
Because he owns a motor car.
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Oh not to be in England
Now that May is here.
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Cold winter night
Stars glitter
Like crystals of ice
High up above.
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As a child I was taught
to despise this world —
the World, the Flesh, and the Devil,
but the world I have found
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Where religious beliefs
are strongly held
and faith is a rock
of certainty,
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We virgin lads and lasses all
Pledge Diana heart and soul:
Come then you lads and lasses, sing
In her honour now a hymn.
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I can hear the far off roaring
of the breakers in the darkness
as they pound upon the shoreline,
and the curlews softly calling
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Across the cosy firelit room my eyes
Are drawn to rest upon the sombre hues
And heavy brushwork of a small oil painting;
It holds my gaze—the scene is strangely haunting.
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Wet walls of rock enclose
a caverned space — earth’s womb
wherein we wander like
lost souls in exile
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Egyptians turned to her in crisis, Isis
Was the favourite of most mothers. Others
Tended rather to prefer her
Who appeared as a cow, how
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