The Gardener of Sinope
The people loved him. But the hearts
Of tyrants have no sense of love,
Their natures keep no pulse thereof.
Yet have they passions in their blood:
Sharp fears, suspicion, and the smarts
Of pride misprised, and subtle darts
Of envy, petty malices,
And mean revenges born of these
That breed and breed, a deadly brood….
So when it chanced the governor
Of all those Paphlagonian lands.
Came once along the windy shore
To bless some Temple in the sands.
And heard how Phocas took his ease
At home on feasts and holidays.
Heeding no gods or goddesses.
As giving neither blame or praise
To priest or vestal — but instead
Worked in his garden, prayed, or read.
Tended the sick, buried the dead,
And, though he never sacrificed
To any god in heaven or hell.
Made all his life acceptable
To one dead man, a criminal, Christ—
The governor, hearing of these things.
Hated this gardener; for a life
With love and prayer for soaring wings,
And scented through with innocent flowers.
Was sore rebuke to his own hours
With cunning, lust and malice rife.
So, having found where Phocas dwelt.
The lowliest of Christ's followers.
He hired two privy murderers.
Who often in such times as these
Have rid him of his enemies;
And, having bade them go, he felt
Merry, and supped and slept at ease.
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