WHILE WALKING THROUGH ST. ANDREWS’ RUINED CLOSE
While walking through St. Andrews’ ruined close,
Negotiating with relentless blows
Of icy wind, pursuing absently
Along the crags of Fife above the sea,
Among the graves that dot the ground and bear
Without a word the steps that trespass there —
A few consider on whose corpse they stride
But many more ignore the ones who died
And gave their matter to what matters now,
Who do not know what moved them, why, or how,
Yet cannot help but marvel at the site
And strain to see the spires in morning light.
I squint to picture how it might have looked
While yet its mumbled masses could be brooked —
The noise and smell of pilgrims with their beads,
All counting out their Aves, Paters, creeds,
Young trebles with their songbooks in the stalls,
The curling smoke and richly painted walls.
But then I hear Genevan Psalms approach
In zeal to smash the idols that encroach
The exclusivity of sanctity,
Just as Jedidah’s son set Judah free,
By penitence delayed impending dread
When Moses’ long-forgotten scroll was read.
I marvel at how easily possessed
I am by spirits lurking to arrest
The tourists who have come to see their tomb
And with a single vision to consume
The other stories that could well unwind
What unity of narrative would bind.