‘Black Shuck’: A Poem by Martin Briggs

Black Shuck

There are curious marks on the north door of Holy Trinity, in
Blythburgh, England. Tradition has it that they were left by the
scorching paws of Black Shuck, a fearsome dog which tried to
force its way into the church one violently tempestuous night
in 1577. Some say the door is charred and radiates a
perceptible warmth.

He muzzles moonward, howls a hollow howl
that drifts abroad on wreaths of frosty breath;
ember-eyed and shaggy-hackled, growls
at his own shadow, bares forbidding teeth.
Silenced, from a naked bough the owl
watches as an inky shape beneath

pads away, then lopes into a run
along remotely prehistoric ways
as if to keep appointment with someone;
through graveyards, crossroads, dells and sunken lanes,
leaping frozen ditches, seen by none
unless the bone-white crook of Charles’s Wain.

Uneasy in your bed, one night you’ll hear
over Anglia’s iron-furrowed ground
a heavy hasty pant draw hotly near:
eagerly but angrily the hound
approaches, bringing sorrow, shame and fear.
Falls a sudden silence; then the sound

of snuffing, whining, scratching at your door.
Deliverance or death, all ends must begin:
a roof-tree offers neither peace nor pause.
Out there waits your past, your sum, your sin,
your self. There’s judgement in those frantic claws.
Get up, go down, let retribution in.

Poet’s Note: The above poem contains a nod towards Francis Thompson’s The Hound of Heaven. It responds to a myth which like many myths contains a symbolic truth. Charles’s Wain is the constellation known alternatively as the Big Dipper, or the Plough.

Martin Briggs lives in Suffolk, England. He only began writing in earnest after retiring from a career in public administration, since when he has been published in various publications on both sides of the Atlantic.