Lincoln Cathedral, 1312-2009
by John Stocks
Unsettled by the crush of silence
By the dead hand of words unspoken
The dread of some distant resonance
The sexton tumbles to his knees in worship.
And dead voices whisper from the portals
His frozen hands can scarcely turn to prayer
And bloodless eyes have lost the drift of days
For God’s sake he will loiter here.
‘Where is your God now, you bastard?
By the time I have finished you will wish you were dead’.
Only old stones know the pulse of time
For him the centuries fuse together
The years of hope then hopelessness
The horror of interminable war.
Fixed here like a gargoyle on the wall
The frozen imp who somehow knows more
The sexton blinded to his ledger
Will feel the terror in his aching bones.
‘Cry for your God now, you bastard
Scream for him in darkness
And waste your final breath’.
Copyright © 2009 by
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