“Under The Octagon by Stewart Stafford

Under the octagon of glass and steel,
A careworn man sits at his desk and sighs,
He longs to leave this place of chilly lies,
And find a hidden treasure that is real.

He knows a code that he can’t reveal,
A sepulchre where the Holy Grail lies,
He found it with his providence eyes,
A numinous and haunting view that heals.

He takes a penknife from his drawer and peels,
His finger till he sees a key inside,
He wraps his wound and leaves without a guide,
He runs towards the garden, full of zeal.

He finds the rhododendrons and the birch,
He digs beneath the wisteria with care,
Cracks open the tomb, and discovers there,
A golden bird sitting upon its perch.

"Back! Thou tomb-raiding thief."
It squawks, its voice so stern,
"Cleanse thyself, endeavour to learn.
Do not touch the Grail without belief!"

Caving in, he seals the grave,
The aureate avian conveys his thanks,
The plumage rejoining arcane ranks,
The man seeks out a confessor's nave.

© Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved”