riches of heaven

Gloucester Cathedral

in giddy bright enthronement

a vibrant heaven

sings its colours

when all is quiet

and the crown of salvation

is held above

meagre mortal

and colour is prayer

and colour is worship

and colour

is the richness

of heaven

in the waking morning

Hereford Cathedral

In the waking morning

with the bleary sun unslumbering slowly,

the river rushes on,

like a commuter late for the train,

dappling the doppelganger reflections

with its speed.

  From high vantage,

the cathedral servant of God

sees, on the dashing surface,

the parable of its mirrored copy.

The story it tells is incomplete

missing colour and definition

in the watery haste.

Bright teardrops

pic: Lincoln Cathedral

These

bright teardrops

glisten the mellow darkness;

silently unspoken prayers

leave the evening corner.

Small, emotional lights

chasing shadows,

slender ointment

anointing

wounds

with their benefice.

New prayers stand tall

in their confidence,

oft repeated prayers

low and patient

seem to kneel.

Unlit prayers wait

in anonymity

for their release.

Lincoln Cathedral

From castle vantage I see its twin

in similar stature piercing the sky.

The cathedral cloaked with centuries of worship

shining with mason’s craft and toil

against overcast backdrop.

This is a beacon for the people’s

red-bricked prayers,

a monument to faith,

the calling card of God.

And though I worship

beyond its skirt of grandeur and of pomp,

beyond its ostentation,

it still inspires;

stirring, like all testaments of faith and artistry,

reverence for a creator

whose art and craft

is measureless and extravagant

even on cloud-filled days.