In Worcester Cathedral by Cathy Whittaker

On my way to the café
I hear a wave of voices rising
like a flock of skylarks
in the fields
at home.

I can’t see them
but their voices roll down
the stone cloisters.

I think of angels flying
past stained glass
into the vaulted ceiling
hiding behind pillars
trumpeting shoals
of joy.

I can’t see them either
but on the other side
of the heavy oak doors

they’re chorusing
spring, summer,
and the crash of the sea.
I am lifted for a moment
on their wings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 2016 workshop

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