Another piece of pathetic poetry from the vault

L & R

It is the sixteenth of October. The people of Oxford
gather to jeer, the sharp clear morning air
breathing on the buildings. And the keen, cold wind.

This is the last stand. But problems will occur
at the best-prepared-for martyrdoms, the flames
fanned in the wrong direction, the wind getting up,

the rain keeping the bundles sodden.
One candle, spoken of among the fire and heat,
helps you to keep face, tell left from right:

a metaphor dreamt up in advance, well, no doubt,
yet brought to life amongst the stench of flame
and frightening off all bodily pain. But the final stand

is here, within this ditch, this hell on earth,
thigh-deep in damp wood, praying for a speedy death.