Poem: ‘White Midas’
Peter Redgrove, 6 July 1989
It is the Pope, the veritable white Polish Pope, The Pope who has been a poet, the published Pope, He who kisses the soil, and accordingly
Worships a Black Virgin, now like a Christ-child He has re-arrived, in a cradle, a deep wicker, And it has a glow of dayspring gold, an aura,
As though he were frying delighted in pure oil: He was vibrating gold and this was his atmosphere, And I? I was...