30. Jan, 2017

In York, As a Child

The Minster's gargoyles
Blow raspberries at God,
Unimpressed by his grandeur.
For after all, they built it,
These masons whose faces
Are the imps on its walls.
Inside, every step
And respectful murmur
Hushes in echoes round
The vast fluted chamber,
Where a line up
Of medieval kings, in statue
Point their feet down,
Dainty in chainmail,
Looking saintly.
In Castle Museum,
Paying our regular call,
I ask, this time,
If all the people in
All the paintings are dead now.
Unmoved to hear they are,
I realise
The two little dogs
Curled by a hearth
Are too, and, grief stricken,
Have to be removed.

Ruth Enright