A sea of masks greeted the opening of the abbey doors.

"What do you want?" asked the caretaker

from his dedicated scrubbing of the tiled floor.

"We're here to get the ashes of Kipling,

that jingo imperialist that lies below."

 

The sanctuary was sacrosanct,

but the threat seemed real enough.

A crowd cannot be easily swayed

and in they burst

with eyes ablaze and digging tools.

 

The forces of law were holding back

aware of the public swell of sympathy

and how the statues were coming down,

but the caretaker had no subtle plan

other than to serve his cause

as defender of the sacred space.

 

What took place cannot be writ

for where is the half of the sense of it?

History will reveal it no doubt

and in the fullness of time

new generations reshaped will cast a biased eye

upon that caretaker and how his fame

carved a tablet to perpetuate his name.