Friuli peasants called Good–walkers

March with fennel–stalks;

Against a warlock's sorghum wand,

They're poor men's seraph swords. They beat the boundaries of fields

To guard our stock and children,

But those the Inquisition catch

Are burned in town as witches.

I got hauled up for telling pubs

My thoughts upon Creation —

Like Hildegarde's fourth vision,

Drawing on cheese–making —

How first the oceans broke like whey

When God rose up like curd,

Then angels grew like worms in cheese

To start to turn the world…

My theories reached the Inquisition

And soured its biggest cheeses

For suggesting something rotten lurked

In the lineage of Jesus.

Banker, alchemist and prince

The Inquisition cowed;

Even Galileo once

Before its wisdom bowed —

But one thing's sure, the thinking poor

For truth must really burn:

At least the line I walked was mine

And proved a worm can turn.