from ‘Hometown Mystery Cycle’

But I was one of the children told
they play the Creation on Applecroft Road
while Abel is battered on Barleycroft Lane
and if I go with him he'll cop it again
at the top of Old Drive. If I stay with the Ark
I'll have seen a good twenty-one Floods before dark,
but I know the place well as the front of my hand
so I watch it in zigzag and still understand.
The dawn's coming up over Handside Green
as Hell's being harrowed by Christ in sunscreen,
but another one rising by pulley-and-rope
at the corner of Mannicotts isn't the bloke
who Thomas is gaping at over his eggs
on a little white trestle on wobbly legs
by the scout hut on Guessens. The stone's rolled away
as slowly as you can roll papier-maché,
and Judas is keeping his anorak zipped
as he checks on his lines in a ragged old script.
Pilate is bicycling by. If we're quick
we can leg it to Lazarus, set up our picnic,
still be in time for the beauty they've got to
assault with tomatoes till Jesus says not to…

Glyn Maxwell

Glyn Maxwell’s mischievous poem about the experience of watching an open-air performance of a mystery play – in this case, in Welwyn Garden City – is one I used at the beginning of most of our mystery play creative writing workshops. By the end of the poem, everyone trails home tired, slightly confused, but uplifted. We hope next Saturday’s performance of our own Mystery Plays will provide a similar experience.

Entry to the evening performance is free but ticketed – follow the link to reserve tickets.
https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/the-oxford-mystery-plays-tickets-36002492424