The GrailA Poem by David Lewis PagetIn
the village Bellastrino On
the craggy Tuscan hills, Lies
an old abandoned Abbey And
the Church of San Michele, Though
the village was abandoned There
are two who would not go, The
Abbot, Father Grandier, The
Priest, Don Angelo. The
Abbey on the mountain top, The
Church down in the dell, They’d
fought, these two, for twenty years Consigning
each to Hell! For
in the Church of San Michele Before
the village failed, Down
in the crypt, beneath the floor They’d
found the Holy Grail. A
bowl, fine wrought in pale green glass, There’s
no room for debate, The
Templar Knights had left it in Eleven
eighty-eight, They’d
always said they would return, In
fact, they never did, They
went to challenge Saladin And
died, as they had lived! ‘It’s
mine,’ said Father Grandier, ‘Not
so,’ said Angelo, ‘I
found it and I’m keeping it, Here,
in the Church below.’ ‘It
should be in the Abbey,’ Father
Grandier opined, ‘Its
glory on the mountain top…’ ‘Not
so! The Grail is mine!’ For
years the two had tussled Had
approached the Holy See, The
Pope thought it ridiculous And
said: ‘Don’t bother me! We
have two dozen of those things, A
heap of rusty nails, All
from the Cross at Calvary But
these are peasant tales.’ A
Cardinal then came to call And
tried to sort them out, Well
practiced in diplomacy He
said: ‘No need to shout! You
have a choir each,’ he said ‘Who
visit in the spring, So
hold a competition here, What
better way, than sing?’ ‘The
better choir shall win the Grail And
keep it for a year, Up
in the Abbey’s mountain top, Or
down here, if you dare. Then
sing for it each passing year, Three
judges, understood? If
one should win it three years straight They
keep the Grail for good!’ With
many muttered mumblings And
hellfire in their eyes, The
Abbot and the priest said yes, Dissembled
with their lies, They
each set out to cheat their way To
keep that Holy Grail, The
Abbot got to pick each judge He
thought he couldn’t fail! The
Abbey won the first two years And
held the Grail on high, While
poor Don Angelo despaired, The
time was coming nigh; They
had to sing for it once more, He
knew that if he failed, The
Abbot would, victorious, Not
let him keep the Grail. Don
Angelo went down to Rome And
brought a tenor back, His
voice like rich red Tuscan wine To
join his choir’s attack, They
sang their hearts out on the day But
saw the judges feign, And
shake their heads, Don Angelo Had
nothing left to gain. The
judge stood up to name the prize, The
Abbot had his way, The
tenor stood and sang a note Not
heard since Jesu’s day, He
held it long, unwavering The
Grail began to ring, A
long high-pitched reverberance, The
Grail began to sing. A
minute there, without a breath The
tenor held his tone, And
Grandier stood up, alarmed, Let
out a fervid moan, The
Grail sang on, then shattered Fell
in pieces to the floor, The
judge stood up and shook his head, Then
said - ‘The sing’s a draw!’ The
Abbey holds the base of it, Up
on the mountain top, All
glued together, like some vase Bought
in the Red Cross Shop. While
down there in the little Church On
a thousand Euro tips, They’re
coining them a fortune with The
rim that touched his lips! David
Lewis Paget © 2012 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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