So many sunny childhood days
I sat by that enchanted Spring,
gazing at the ruby blooms,
awaiting angels on the wing
to whisper Urith’s Holy truth;
sweet Urith, murdered in her youth.
Sweet Urith, murdered in her youth.
sliced by scythes whilst in her prime,
by pagan farmhands, fighting Christ,
a faith in God her only crime,
and where she fell, fast sprung a well,
and pimpernels, the deed to tell.
And pimpernels, the deed to tell,
grew where poor Urith’s life’s-blood lay
sprinkled by that virgin belle.
Though centuries have passed away,
the spring still trickles water clear,
and pimpernels bloom very year.
And pimpernels bloom every year.
These modest flowers mark the space
where Urith lay in silent death,
reminding all who pass that place
of Chittlehampton’s hallowed youth;
Saint Urith, martyred for God’s truth.
Yes! I’ve finally done it! I’ve written the poem I wanted to write about Saint Urith. I’m happy with this one. As soon as I’ve posted this, I’m going to do a little dance.
©Jane Paterson Basil
Making it write 