Random Thoughts in the Herb Garden, Southwark Cathedral. (Revised)

I sat and dreamed in the remnants of the chapel,
sat and studied the herbs that now grow there
to create a metaphor of the resurrection,
vivid new growth between the weathered stones.

"My head is like a sieve", the old woman cried.
"Pour words in my ears they fall straight off my lips
then evaporate into the empty air".

"But nothing is really lost", I thought as I sat there
amongst the herbs and heaps of broken stones.
"I can see the shape of the chapel outlined in the raw earth
just like the carcase of a stranded ship.

I would like to haul that ship out of the soil,
set up the mast, a spire of polished wood,
swing on the ropes and climb".

Pre reformation England haunts this place,
but the rush hour traffic pounding London Bridge
shakes the earth more violently than the bells,
Cathedral bells that call the crowds to Mass.

Here in this urban sprawl of steel and glass
small memories of a rural past remain,
this herb garden is one such tiny space.

 Time present and time past here intersect,
create a sombre stillness in the heart
of the vibrant city. Even the solemn nave of the Cathedral
seems not so holy as this fragrant spot.

What sort of resurrection is implied
by these herbs that pack the broken ground
that was once the stone floor of the Bishop`s Chapel?

Perhaps the interface of spring and winter
when flowers explode with life, greening the fissures
that fracture the city sidewalks. Earth bound spinnakers of green
transforming yesterday into tomorrow.

"The garden is now closed", the old woman called.
It seems that even she still keeps the hours
that drive this city like a clockwork motor,
grinding all quiet thoughts out of our minds.

Oh I wish that the Ship of Faith,
that I have built in my imagination,
could sail me away to a calmer civilisation.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
Original short version.August 28th. 2016.
New long version. February 22nd. - 23rd. - 24th. 2017.