Poetry

The First Cathedral

To call this a cathedral

is the wrong way around –

for those medieval stonesmiths

drew upon its sylvan grace

for inspiration: a wood of quickening green,

carpeted by the bright hum of ramson,

the flamenco frills of Spanish bells.

A nod and a wink from the green man

gurning from boss stone and church pew

at the coded forest about him,

echoing where he first drew breath,

a gleam in the eye of the dawn stag.

Walk the fungal aisle,

hearken the feathered choir –

let the aspiring trunks draw eye to

the filigree of vaulted canopy

with its mindful crown shyness,

the rood screens and side

chapels of the understorey,

the apse and the chancel

of the bower and the grove.

The place I come to worship,

a prayer in blue on this

day of April respite,

a peal of bluebells

ringing in the Spring.

Copyright Kevan Manwaring, 2021