Francis to his Father
Father, if only you had understood
I craved to be the man of every hour -
All your ambition slept deep in my blood.

I had your merchant’s will to vie. Two years
Caught a prisoner in Perugia, I was still

Half-aware I’d fought for a town’s profiteers.
A ransom – than the homecoming. ‘Is Francis ill
Or in love?’ people asked, wondered why

I looked so distant; I did the parties until
Something snapped. Every stricken passer-by
Now fixed his stare on me, saying ‘Francis,

All turns on you; Francis, look in my eye!’
There were riches in Apulia – I had lances,
Troubadour’s songs to sing. I could forget.

But haunted daily by those strangers’ glances,
I sold your bale of scarlet cloth to let
Some paupers feed. Father, you whipped me,

Branded me a madman; each time we met
You cursed, so I paid a down-and-out his fee
To bless me as a father, taunt your sorrow –

For I would outdo, best the world in poverty.
I was young and life tomorrow.
Already my followers scheme for a benefice;

The road seemed short – I could beg or borrow
Rags of humility, call your care avarice.
Time unlocks compassion’s garden-gate;

Father, I bid you forgive my Judas kiss.

MICHAEL O’SIADHAIL