I went down, as I had resolved to do,
to the house where the preachers preyed.
‘You who know should help me,’
were the words I used. I said:
‘Please explain the cruelty.’
Not one stone replied.

Twenty-five years after Joan of Arc burned
Rouen’s city fathers said she shouldn’t have died.
—They apologised
—They agonised
—Their more poetic eulogised—
But still, she lay,
a little lump: unleavened clay.
She could not sue. Her suet grey
had melted clean and cleared away.

(Joan of Arc and I both occasionally visited Rouen for our work. Hers had not only obviously more impact but also, so far, more definite termination. Each time that I am in Rouen, I think of her, and of the savageries we ascribe to religion, and I sing this little song for her.)