Len Webster's 'st Martin's In The Bull Ring' Poem by Len Webster

from the neck of the city
entering discourteously
through electronic doors
you are plunged into a new universe
able to pause for cleansing water to bless
before turning westwards
where broken glass has been renewed
above your head

twisting further
you hit the gargoyles
that taunt even by day
as you seek direction
among sandstone pillars
washed and patched

this is no canterbury
but there is a modest lichfield touch
except for empty pews
blind in this treasure island
where poppies wait for their renewal
in memory of the fallen comrades

on the journey into silence
spared by echoes
you ignore the golden eagle
with his wings spread
but volumeless without the word
king james's word no longer heard

unreconstituted glass
the burne-jones window
an admired aside
is a stop on the journey
fragile pictures of human beauty
saved from annihilation
by an accident
or if you prefer by fate

stepping up towards the carved altar
ignoring memories of evensong silliness
from an embarrassing adolescence
you wilfully refuse to kneel
a second person singular
rejecting an almost forgotten
never forgiven
past self.

there is no turning back
the guiding symbol stands above
among the figures
of this your past
apostle and worker translated
into the cross of light
delicately copied into fragile glass
that bombs could shatter

sculpted out of stone
holy images touch you
at the end of this
your journey

and yes you will turn back
and retrace those steps
into the world you left
emerge renewed from
this daytime drift
into a romantic dream

each knowing
in the heart's most honest corner
that passions have been
still-born
and going back is
but a childhood wish
a willing of a better past
trembling with the weight
of selective memory