Whereof one cannot speak
a clerkly sceptic may cast doubt
stumbling on the steps of conjecture.
In Pembroke Arch the voices echo
turning the stone to water.
The energy of intellect shimmers.
Many sights distract a casual eye
when light passes carelessly.
The gilt on a portal glistens
summoned to a thinker’s conviction
burning through an original mind.
The sight is rare in any sky.
Dust settling on dry soil.
Thereof one must be silent
as ashes from everlasting fire,
where indifferent feet hasten,
the immortality scattered
before time will change the world.
The river runs its age-old course,
coiled in hope of eternity.
The truth is living here,
its several realities moving
in and out of hurried streets.
Rain falls here as everywhere.