(in the style of Sylvia Plath)
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Cold and smoldering, our lady
Wanders barefoot along the fabled hall;
Shattered panes through, drifts of prayer
Like smoke over puddled wax.
-
Prayers that hugged the firm shoulders of a wooden cross
Tangled in the ash huddle of stone and molten lead
Now fold their wings like gargoyles and disappear
Into the sky space where once stood the spire.
-
Birds circling overhead are not what they might be
To the gazing child, the hungry thief
Beyond the clair-obscur of plumes and flame;
Behold the Cathedral as Inferno.
-
A lone priest squats among the wreck
Of kaleidoscope shards
Probing fractured Mary with a stick
Under amputated shadows of parapets.
-
A young wind flutters the tattered altar cloth
That stretches out beneath the rubble;
Though we yearn to utter secrets in her ancient confessional bosom
A single rosary bead is all we need.
-
Parisians will love again; the actual sun
Will scrupulously rise and set over the Seine;
The circling birds will wander off
Et c’est comme ça, comme ça, comme ça.