Call Down Poem by Peter Jones

Call down now
to the brown marbled witness;
unseen in the frolicking muddletown
that bubbles clear in the dayfall;
girdled in praise
of railings torn down.

Call on the slightest
in the crowds that saw
the gold leaf applied
to the word
in praise of the dogma
that the passing burnt-eyed
could not see
and some long lost truth never heard.

How the bulls roared up the hill!
call down on them too.
Call down on the one rose
that leans on the stone:
older than poppies by far.
No candles are lit
when the tributes fall due,
yet still they are bright
for the martyr proclaimed.
And call down on the souls
who, for the truth,
found martyrdom too
but never were named.