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.