Purvey Describes His Work with Wycliff
A poem by Thom Satterlee
Those afternoons in the rectory
seated at opposite sides of the same table,
sunlight on our manuscripts,
an inkwell shared in the middle,
I never wrote one word for him.
Palsied as he was, the Lord
left his right side unharmed.
In fact, I sometimes thought
the strength he lost in one arm
was transferred to the other.
To see him rush words onto the page!
I thought of squirrels gathering nuts
frantic in October. But he was
pouring out every word he had,
knowing his own autumn had come.
One time I looked up and saw
his left arm dangling
off the edge of the table, limp
as a tree limb broken
in a storm. Quietly, I stood,
walked around the table,
and set his arm back
on the surface.
He never stopped writing
or even glanced up at me.
And now as some have begun
to say a sick man could not
have written all we say he did.
I wish to make clear
he did. My only aid was
this simple act of kindness:
I carried a part he no longer
needed. I did not interrupt him
when he worked.
First published in Southern Review, Spring 2006, Vol. 42 Issue 2, pgs 422-423.
