Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
Tiger was in his Hell,
he crawled into his Purgatory,
cried in silence,
like a bleeding lion
speared by an unrelenting hunter,
couldn’t walk to his Calvary
unassisted.
Tiger fell from his Garden of Eden
into Job’s pestilence,
out of the Mouth of the Whale,
and the tomb stone,
Tiger put on the mantle of Lazarus.
He faced his Peter at the Gates of Augusta
with firm forehead, trusty swing, and magic
conjured from the old days before his Flood.
Was it a plenary indulgence
lifted Tiger into his Heaven
in four days?
The black man from the innards of a dark wood
strode out on the Last Day of the Masters,
Resurrected.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 