Patricia Cresswell Poet Free verse

One Thousand At the Eleventh Hour

one thousand at the eleventh hour

They come from afar
through seasons bitten by frost
across a mountain's pass deep in snow
shout they all, " holy holy save us god"
"wash our sins away, free us from the damned”.

they dip into our well for healing
catch each trembling drop upon
crying supplicant lip, "holy, holy save me,”
"the end is nigh,”
"we hear the hooves cracking"
see the signs even in the daytime skies.

prostrate, rich and beggar charm the grotto
with promises of money or servitude.
monks and priests alike solemnly dash 
a throng of fear with blessed water
scooped from a barrel behind the basilica.

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John Fleming October 14, 2017 at 2:21 PM A very strange poem indeed, Patricia...most unusual! Even the reference to the "basilica" does not give much of an idea...apart from perhaps a pilgrimage of sorts? Reminds me very much of Nostradamus -- really quite intriguing! My very warmest regards. :) john Patricia Cresswell October 14, 2017 at 3:07 PM People lined up for blessing and to be sprinkled with the holy water. Patricia Cresswell October 14, 2017 at 3:06 PM You are right it is a pilgrimage of sorts. I believe it was in the middle ages when hey thought the end was near. The church was selling indulgences every pond became a holy well it seems.