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.