Poetry

Some come to view my wondrous dome
that clever men raised piously to God
They sift the dust of Araby and Rome
to watch re-open beautiful old wounds.

Others come to dally in my square
munch my crill and sip my blood, my wine
upon my pretty sons and daughters stare
askance from out the corners of their eye.

Some come to view the images
genius has brushed upon my walls
or wander to my furthest precipices
puzzled by the voices in my bells.

I raise their gazes up for courtesy
backward like a backward-running stream
before their engines ferry them away
and they can say they've known a kind of peace.