Heritage Poem by Goddo Faggotte

That shed was our Notre Dame,
and in this cathedral we celebrated our childhood,
hammering straight the bent nails of life,
humming There is a Green Hill far Away.
Grandfather worked with hunched back
over the workbench, calculating
the geometry of the mortise and tenon joints
for the Old Wooden Cross.

Heritage is belonging to a place,
far older than your own awareness,
where the great doors
are opened by an over-sized,
hand-cast key, only ever by himself.

No swaying censer burned at the altar.
Our heritage was the mixed spice,
slightly oily aroma of wood shavings
falling at the feet of our silver-haired carpenter,
chiselling beadings for wood panels of
the Last Supper.

Heritage is hiding under the twelve-seater table
like frightened, wide-eyed disciples,
hearing the clapping thunder booming,
like a symphony of dinner gongs,
or the clashing dazzle of a lightning strike,
like centurions readying at Gethsemane’s Gate,
and after the pieces of silver have been exchanged,
falling asleep,
safely in the following quiet,
belonging where you are,
belonging to your place,
folded in the arms of Heritage.