At the Abbey of Bury St. Edmund's

by Brett Rutherford

Had they not
refused their fathers’ blessings
before they set out,
masters of the league of thieves —

Had they not
found unguarded, thanks
the sextons’ drunkenness,
the Burial Church of St. Edmund —

Had they not
in eagerness for profit
pried the iron nails
from the wooden door —

Had they not
in gold-lust, that Midas curse,
tried to pry loose
the gilding
above the lintel —

Had they not
left so visible a ladder
in alleyway
as two of them clambered
up to search for gaps
in the terracotta —

Had they not
made noise enough
to wake the dead
with shovel, pick, and hammer
in every-which-way attack
on the portal —

Had they not
greedily indulged in
“Mushrooms, fresh today!”
at the nearby inn that night

then off they would have gone
with the bones of St. Edmund,
some to re-sell
to ardent collectors,
some to grind up
for miracle cures,
but no!  All eight
fell down in one flow
of writhing limbs, hands
clasping their tools
and implements;
down, too,
the clattering ladder.

Eyes glazed, arms frozen
in acts of desecration,
they lay inert,
till well past dawn.

The watchman found them,
paralyzed yet breathing.
The bailiff was called.
A crowd assembled.
The burglars’ tools
were noted and catalogued.

A miracle! All cried
as thieves awoke
and were put in irons.
An eager friar
passing that way
on a pilgrimage,
reclaimed the precious
door-nails,
stuffed the torn gilding
into his mendicant bag,
and shuffled away.

The crowd moved
to the gallows’ square
where Bishop Theodred
condemned all eight
to share a single gibbet.

A miracle! The crowd chants

as word of the failed robbery

spreads far and wide.
Saint Edmund saved himself!

Ah! moaned the eldest thief,
had we not
partaken of
that mushroom stew!