A Night in ‘The White Hart’, Lincoln

by John Stocks


The view from my room, quite unexpected;
Cathedral looming, imperious,
Filling my window, the darkening sky
Transcended by angles, arched recesses.

Once the tallest structure in Christendom
Standing proud in its priestly tyranny.
Instinctively I was drawn to detail:
The first uneven blocks, the gargoyles.

I imagined the peasant shivering,
Stumbling up steep hills, his head bowed.
The priest; the unvarnished face of God
Oblivious to the symmetry.

The Lancaster flying back from Berlin
Or Hamburg, anxious for a glimpse of home
Finding solace in the ancient steeple
A counterweight to inner turbulence.

That night my dreams were fitful, medieval,
The past tenacious, smothering
Until at 7 the church bells boomed
And life resumed its measured course.


Copyright © 2010 by John Stocks

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