Cathedral

by Brendon Sylvester

Beneath the hull-like vaults that shrine

dear Bede while he prays his history,

and Cuthbert, filled with Phineas’ fire,

just where Oswald’s head can see,

a massive light-up globe disturbs

the dark, revolves like a plastic boat

caught in the swirl of a draining bath.

A sign opposite a window

stained with fire and doves and air

says the artist dies while making it,

that it could mean anything, and you

should think of how it makes you feel.

A tourist stares through the glass like time,

where there are masons on the lawn.

They work among what will be tombs,

laying stones that start long lines

that, stone-winged, vault the air of time

along an arc up to a zenith

years beyond where they can see.

But other eyes soar up them

in the dark to where God is.

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Brendon Sylvester is a poet and educator near Philadelphia, PA. His writing has appeared in Inkwell, Touchstone, the Amethyst Review and elsewhere. He is a poetry editor for the Anselm Society and runs Salt & Iron’s poetry workshop. You can read more of his writing on Substack.