Gloucester Cathedral
It was the morning when God sang
in the cathedral, sang for joy
at being God, at being our parent
and parent of those others in from the streets.
The only way He could express His joy
was in His song a little like Bach it was,
though light as Mozart, tender as Vaughan Williams;
and yet perhaps it was more like a bird:
a thrush at dawn, nightingale at evening.
God was so happy here. He shared
His happiness with ours. The sturdy
Norman pillars seemed to quiver,
The east window trembled. Robert
of Normandy, listening from his tomb,
lessened his hold on the stone sword.
And we? We tried so hard not to applaud.
What would those quiet, conscientious
tourists think? Reluctantly we left,
paused before closing the massive door
against a song never to be forgotten.
� Sylvia Read 2007
Gloucester Cathedral
Sylvia Read