Seek in the wretched darkness
a ghost to fall on,
another life to live
for your place in the heart of thunder
was too much.
Seven years in a bearded pit
beyond hope of sun,
alone save chain and stone.
That infernal black
dressed your skin and corroded vision,
edging closer to the spirit
like a grim wave rolling toward fortune.
Never was sleep so cruel
releasing you from memories eye
into a tomb where minutes clicked like nails,
and evil cowered.
Forgotten son
alone in his grave,
what crime helped smother you
in weeping scabs and hair?
What sin or foolish word displeased
the king to cause such wicked spite?
Child in cursed despair
you knew before all holy scribes
that hell is not bathed in flame
or sweating from lust,
for yours was hell,
crushed in the palm of horror
just below the sounds of joy.
In forgiveness be strength poor man,
then all rage lies exhausted.
And as countless days crawled
toward fading storms,
you felt despite a dungeon sleep
faith would lift you sober from its lair.
Blessed John six centuries on
and still you rise,
as clean as the air of Pembroke
which teased your starving lungs.
Fear never more
hate no longer,
man of peace
flowered from a despicable womb...
@Steven Francis Poems 2008
For John Whithorne,
imprisoned for 7 years in Pembroke Castle Oubliette
and still a source of marvel.
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