She was always a bit of a tomboy,
I knew that when we got married.
Not for her a bridal gown of white satin,
bouquet and veil, but a helmet,
an axe, and a cloak of chain mail.
Should have been a nun if you ask me,
but no convent would have her.
She was no good at taking orders,
even holy ones. And to be honest,
the hooded falcon on her wrist did her no favours.
At sixteen you came along, the voices:
Tuez les Anglais! What’s the point?
Why not tell her something useful
like how to make a decent cassoulet,
or where to buy a goose that lays golden eggs?
When you told her to fight at Compiègne
I begged her to turn a deaf ear, but no,
there’s too much at stake, she said.
Many a true word, as it turned out.
Wounded, captured and thrown into prison.
And where were the voices at Rouen
when she was in the dock accused of heresy?
You could have pleaded her innocence.
Instead you clammed up. Watched dumbly
as she was sentenced and burned as a witch.
But for you, she’d have stayed with me
on our farm in Domrémy and raised a family.
Lived contentedly and died in obscurity.
No martyrdom at nineteen, no celebrity.
O voices, you have so much to answer for.