After Touring St. Mels Cathederal
Where the fire burned… its smell intimately familiar
One statue survived, mere damage and dust of smoke
Pictured on the walls: the ruins, it looks now that there was never any
I listened, as the bishop of it spoke
Of the sculpture of the Stations and the Church Mice
Of how neither realistic or mystic was the style
What I understood most was what heretofore Id liked the least: the windows
To make an environment for prayer: that made me smile
The light flooded in as if God there dwelt among us
A baby being baptized below us bawled and cried
I said a silent prayer of few words and yet much meaning
If Christ looked down I thought he’d say “That’s why I died”
