She was on the hillside gathering greens,
Bent at the waist, head close to soft clover,
When hoof-sound made her mindful, still, and she
Crouched like an animal, afraid to move,
Then she set to sprint, but her long skirt caught
In the gauze, making her easy bounty,
Musk-soaked cotton pressed onto her warm breasts,
Freshly exposed through the rip in her blouse,
A hard Turk sealed her screams, violated
Every orifice, fucked life from her lips,
And left her for the vultures to feast on,
From a monastery not far away,
Came the hope of prayer and the promise of
A hot meal, hoof-sound made the monks mindful,
Habitual mutterings gave courage,
Switched on by the Angelus at daybreak,
They pleased God in a haze of sweet incense,
Inviting invaders to their table,
Abbot Gabriel turned towards heaven
And entertained the Turk, not knowing that
A circle of vultures clericked the sky,
Ready to gobble his flesh, drain his blood,
Tear apart his sibling’s unburied limbs,
The moon was up three times before he heard
Of his sister’s death, and berating cries
Accompanied the tolling of the bell,
Until his breath choked with venom of hate,
Until his sack-cloth soaked tears of revenge,
Till hoof-sound was the Devil at his gate,
When next the culprit clopped to rest and feed,
He did not meet with hospitality,
And whilst he tied his steaming steed, he was
At once set on, bludgeoned and boiled in oil
By raging priests, all thoughts of goodness gone,
Honeyed with justice, at damnation’s door,
At dawn they bore down for holy slaughter,
Razing the sacred home, and defacing
St George with a lead ball to the temple,
A damaged witness to torture,
Abbot Gabriel was imprisoned, hanged,
Hoof-sound muffling his call for forgiveness.
Jane Sharp
2010
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Jane Sharp has lived in Vrahassi, a mountain village in Crete, for the past sixteen years. She has been writing poetry for a lot longer. Her poems have been published in magazines, read on the B.B.C. and have won prizes.
