Lichfield Cathedral

Lichfield Cathedral

The lights from Lewis stand on guard by doors
of oak, the ivy wrought of iron grows.
All around angels stand with weeping sores
Of moss and mould, the world beneath their toes.
With bishops, saints and demons ‘neath the spires,
the cobbled streets and trees of green are wound
To follow paths from site to site, with choirs
of birds, and leaves that fall, dead, to the ground.
When steps are heard in time with bells that toll
and sing the past is seen to live. Faces
on tombs, no longer grave. The lighting rolls
and changes, hours move by books in cases.
The past is not as lost as time, it’s real
and waiting behind walls of stone. Come, kneel.