Gratuitous Scadian Religious Poetry

Here’s a little poem that I wrote tonight, based on something that happened to me once at Pennsic. You will note that, while it’s important to know where your towel is, the medieval hoopy frood needs to know where her cloak is. I recommend heavy blanket wool, because it gets warmer when it gets wet, and can be placed on the ground without worry.

I remember Pennsic, when the clouds
Dumped rain on us in sheets and thunder rolled.
The wind came up and lashed us, sharp and cold.
A child among the booming cried out loud.

But I was wearing my thick warm wool cloak.
I took it off and held it overhead.
It flapped its plaid: green, yellow, orange, red —
We huddled underneath till sunshine broke.

That’s how they drew you, Mother, long ago,
With sinners clinging to you like that child
Who feared the rain and wind that blew so wild.
Beneath your cloak we’re safe when worldwinds blow,

For you have weathered storms worse than this one.
You saw the sun grow dark and felt Earth shake,
And yet at last there came that bright daybreak
When suddenly you saw your risen Son.

The only problem is that this poem doesn’t really capture the moment: the weird light, the way we ended up cramming at least ten people under a fairly small circle cloak, the poor kid shivering, the way the cloak itself got heavier and heavier as it absorbed more rain, or how its height kept increasing as taller people got under its roof…nope, not even close.

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