Searching in a Minster
Gold and grey, red and green
Shining silver; satin's sheen.
Glint of glass and gilt and glow
Of candles, they flicker now.
Chime of bell within, without,
Announces loud the hour's clout,
Whispered voices, low tones, high,
Shuffle of feet - of noise, they're shy.
Air of cold, crisp stone beneath,
Above our heads, under our feet,
Scent of little but the dust,
Incense has left no hint of musk.
All of these is where I am -
Centuries come and leave - the Lamb
Little bleats now in their hearts,
And features not in their life's chants.
Is this the better place to look
For the voice that I forsook?
If not here, then, tell me where?
Or is this all that's there?
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