LEAVES OF THE CECROPIA TREE
And what of privileged things
mur & frankinscense
or sandlewood --
yes, teak, ambergris
or skies of indigo blue
-- I cite these gifts,
caravans offered as treasure
Christopher Wren putting
the domes of St. Paul
in place like worn spectacles
over a cherubic face.
The last gargoyle pops in sight
near Notre Dame
such cathedrals are whitened sepulchre
stones in "stately
pleasure domes
decreed".
I see the Taj Mahal
where Mahatma Gandhi might have trod.
The utterance of a tulip
in every parable Christ talked;
rosebuds gleaming milk
on the breath of lilacs
their shields of lilies
shone where Solomon walked.
Song of Songs is none other
than the poet's heart,
water across stones.
a warm sun working double shifts
as a pitchfork stacking memories
on a summer's day
shooing aside leaves of the Cecropia tree;
old Walt resting on a bench
mumbling his prayers.
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SOUTHWARK
I noticed a bust of Shakespeare, an effigy in stone with
latticing to mirror the ages. In the same cathedral a
notation commented John Harvard was baptized here.
Outside, rain fell on tombstones scarcely readable,
their letters frail imitations of what each man
considered important in life.
The church itself breathed renewal. We learn John
Gower, epic poet to the court of Richard II,
worshipped here. I thought of translucence, then muir
and gems the wise men brought the Infant Christ.
Prayer candles glowed and fell into a lap of pyre. The
crypt held Edmund, brother to the Bard.
A handsome altar betrayed sentiments Gray used in
his elegy to another courtyard. My thoughts
continued onto nearby Tower Bridge, steel and energy
dynamos before steps of the multitude released at five.
A sign read no alcohol was to be consumed on church
grounds.
The very name of the place visited was poetic, half
twist of muscle, more pull of silent breath.
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