I came to Geneva
by the bullet train,
up from church kero lamps—
it must have been the bullet train.
I rolled in on a Sunday
to that jewelled circling city
and everything was closed
in the old-fashioned way.
In the city of Palais
and moored Secretariat
I arrived in spring when
the Ferraris come out
but John Calvin, unforgiver
in your Taliban hat
you pervade bare St Peters
in la France protestante,
refuge of the Huguenots,
Courtauld, Pierrepoint, Haszard,
boers Joubert and Marais,
Brunel’s young Isambard
and their black segmented lord
Rohan, curled on his tomb lid:
roi ne puis, sujet ne daigne
that Perfect Captain said.
Calvin, padlock of the sabbath,
your followers now protect you:
predestination wasn’t yours, they claim,
nor were the Elect you,
but: when you were God
sermons went on all day
without numen or presence.
Children were denied play.
I loved your moral snobbery
but the spirits you relied on
turned atheist long ago.
Come to Italy, messer John.
roi ne puis, sujet ne daigne: I can’t be king, I scorn to be subject (motto of the Dukes de Rohan)