Catching the Scythe
When full moonbeams hit St Barquistes, listen.
The stony buttresses live; not only flesh can pass away.
In the gloom of grief, under black rainbows, the gargoyles sing: some in Hebrew, some Latin or French; others still, Aramaic.
But heed their canticle; listen for names.
And if any named are those you love, spend time with them while you can.
In the stillness.
In the dark.
When full moonbeams hit St Barquistes.
From the thunderheads of November to the kingfisher skies of summer; under corbeled vaults and beeswax cloisters, I’ve watched them, oftentimes my voice their only company.
They perished, their Eden turned to my Gethsemane and I felt the science of time develop emotions; grief.
I shall remember them.
But I’ll tick no more. The brass sun of my pendulum will hereafter set.
This day will be forever remembered in my stillness;
Not broken, just loyal.