Winter tales - a poem by Chris Zachariou

Pirates Gambling for Maidens

I.

An icy North Wind sailing

on green and purple seas

whips and mauls the land.

The frozen peaks

of the Anatolian Mountains

tower in the distance

and the Moor is howling

in the Devil's Sea.

Brave warriors of five and six

shelter in hushed classrooms

until the battered day is done.

When the school bell rings

muddy boots and ties undone

pour silently into lanes and streets.

St Michael with a gleaming sword

stands on the spire of his church so high

his head is resting at the feet of God.

The graveyard with its crumbling steps

and the whispers of the lipless dead

is surely the gate to the World of Nether.

Shades linger in its darkness searching

for a child's body and a demijohn of blood.

I fall into my grandpa's arms, he bolts

the door against the anger of the wind

and banishes the whispers of the skulls.

II.

Late at night sitting on his knee by the fireside

I listen to him spin the yarn of the Pirates and the Moor. 

          Once so long ago

          on a darksome night

          ships came draped in black

          with blacker flags

          of bones and skulls.

          Blood dripping scimitars

          and demons poured

          from their bowels of hell

          folk locked their doors
          prayed to the Lord for mercy
          and prepared to die.

       

In the storm-tossed night I hear howls and screams
I see shadows fighting on the walls and the room
is filled with the pungent smell of burning flesh.

          Craving virgin flesh
          the fearsome Moor has
          come to rape and pillage.

          Men and women
          lie in pools of blood
          and girls and boys

          are dragged wailing

          to open fields
          and darkened barns.

          Brimstone and fire

          and avenging angels

          pour down from

          the burning skies.

      

          In a flash of white fury
          our guardian Angel

          brings down his scythe
          onto the Arab's neck
          and hurls his writhing body
          far into the Devil's Sea.

III.

A pale sun rises in the morning sky.
Ploughmen are out in the fields once more
and shepherds are climbing up to the hills again.

Fishermen sit by the quay chewing tobacco,
they smoke roll-ups and tell stories of the ones
who drowned and of the perils of the sea.

The voices of the dead are silent.
The Anatolian Mountains have melted

in the distance and the Moor whimpers

once again in the Devil's Sea.