'I come from a place called by the Florentine poet, in Italian,

Paradiso, and I have been sent here, for but a short while, until

I return to that place, to irradiate the earth. I was sent to greet

​

You, by a most gracious lady, the lady Mary, the Ave madam,

Whom all of Heaven loves, because she cuddled the Christ child.

I live with Her, in light and love, locusts and honey, with the

​

Blessed Beatrice, and Bernadette Soubirous, the French girl

To whom Our Lady condescended, she, who scraped the earth,

With her fingernails, to let the Lourdes rivers run,

​

From a trickling stream. I am only to be here, for a very short while,

Until I return to, from whence I came, sorority of sister handmaidens.

When I was born in Heaven, Beatrice, speaking of herself, said:

​

'I must go a little lower, now, and take a lower place.

For, as the Baptist once proclaimed, he came to make straight, a path

For the Lord, and also said, of the Saviour, that he was not fit to

​

Untie His sandals, I myself, am not fit, Child, to undo your shoes.

For, one day, you will inspire new life, seven volumes, into a man,

The Holy Spirit, will Wonersh select, to drive like a donkey, and pack-mule,

​

Until, he acquire lesser, saving propeties, and he become, a marvellous

Configuration of the dramatist's seven ages''. She paused.

'My name is April, and Our Lady alone, calls me, Prila, and

​

I am here to speak to you, because only three men, will ever know,

The nature of true love, and you, sweet veltro, are the last

Of that breed, third of them, and the third woodsman, three,

​

As St. Patrick explained, there could be three parts to a

Shamrock, three florets, to a green broccoli. The first

Woodsman, was Joseph, the teknon carpenter, Cure d'Ars, to

​

The Ivory Tower, who knew a low wood trade. The second,

Was the man called Dante, who was lost in a dark wood,

Who found Heaven on earth in Beatrice; and the third is you, 

​

Who found Heaven in me, in a Florentine library.

The convert Newman's prayer, created my twin sister, but you

Are cradle, of half-Irish descent, and unique. I am called to be,

​

The novice companion, for whom, years ago, you once so longed.

Decanted into descant, we have been chosen, to be the

Two cruets, placed upon the side table, before the gifts

​

Of bread and wine, are brought to the altar, yoked voices, bound

Together, like St. Patrick's breastplate, to univocal perfection, so that

Benedict XV, will joy in Heaven, and, in disbelieving wonder,

​

Dryden tag his lines, amend encyclical, with the words,

​"Sixth gospel", appended after "fifth"; and Paul VI, modify, a

Motu proprio, titled Altissimi cantus. No Grub Street hack, then,

​

No Colley Cibber, this one talent, not lodged with you useless,

But Durante's name to be paired, in future, papal keys texts, with

A new singer, Virgil himself, would readily acknowledge, write

​

​Of, and Phoebus fresh speak of, for your new found mastery, in

​Sixth book of 'Aeneid', the greyhound prophecy fulfilled, in 'Commedia'

Of, 'Colloquium Christus', anno domini, two thousand thirteen. 

​

Sweetest veltro, no Henry VII, not Charles Martel, not Benedict XI;

Neither Cangrande della Scala, nor Ugoccione della Faggioula of Lucca,

But bearer, of a Gemini twinning, Tuscan, exquisite courtly love

​

Receptivity of heart, I have been sent to you, because, like

Bernadette, you were white, at Hathaway's age of 'sweet and twenty-

​Six', as the Irish author termed it, in his Dublin, Liffey book.

​

As Gabriel, once greeted the Virgin girl, at the Annunciation,

I annunciate, auctor, with divine auctoritas, only one man alive,

Can save His Church, restore Sancta Mater Ecclesia, Barthes author

​

Good news, a new, named gospel, according to Andrew, and it is you.

Veltro, Saltire, you, are to bring true health, to the hearth of Italy again,

Beneath Bernini's baldacchino, in San Pietro, and there, cross the keys.

​

And, in memory of her, Euraylus, Turnus and Nisus, who died of wounds,

You, who were born, between Cross-arms, of 'Christ Sonnets',

In Rome, born, between felt and felt, cloth and cloth,

​

Courtly and 'Commedia', paper and paper, wood and wood,

Assisi and Assisi, Francis et Franciscus, whom Mary,

More and Erasmus love, the blended white and black, Grey,

​

​Gospel, shall hunt the she-wolf, and all of them, back to Hell,

Hound, awaited, for so long, by sentinel brooding over, piazza di

Santa Croce, you, for whom, Milan, Pisa, Verona, Ravenna and Rome,

​

Will all, one day, weep. Only you, have such an intelletto d'amore,

Of the special love, who look at me, like Joseph looked on Mary, possess,

Such a heart and mind'. She smiled. 'I tell you, solemnly, this afternoon,

​

You will walk, in grey-skied Jerusalem, with the via Crucis man, Christ,

Jesus, the estate manager, you, whom Vocatio set on, a parallel

Choir-road path, vale of tears, in that now ripened novel, 'Christ',

​

And, He will teach you, how to love another wood, His wood, the

​True Cross-wood. He prunes all the branches, and, one day,

​He will come to sit in judgement, and, very swiftly,

​​

He will cut away, all the dead wood. And, because you loved a

​Miltonic, 'Comus', Sabrina chaste, masque wood once, not wisely,

But too well, eternal pilgrim, he will let you place a hand, upon

​​

A wooden upright, that you take some of His burden, help alleviate

His pain. He will give you peace and joy. He is the one, Benedict sole

Calls, 'Abbot', and he himself will breathe upon you, Veltro, though

​​

You, a sinner, fresh, saving properties, this Easter Sunday afternoon,

​As he once breathed upon some other men, at Pentecost,

So you can sing, not like the modern scribes and pharisees, but

​

Sing to save, for the wood of the Cross, the Chair of Peter, in Rome'.

 

'​The Christ Colloquy' Book V Mary  Canto XLVII: 1-88, Grattan.

April addressing Andrew, on Easter Sunday afternoon, 2013, beside Christ's tomb, in the garden of Gethsemane.

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