On Visiting the Cathedral at Wells (UK)
They laid my flesh under granded stone
And carved my name with praise,
An epithet to do me proud.
And catch the tourist gaze.
The feet of pilgrims since have trod
four hundred years or more.
I’ve harkened to both heart and voice
in songs of rich and poor.
Now children bring their pencils
And scrub to find my name,
But the soles of a thousand penitents
Have dulled and dented fame.
Thanks that in this place of song
The stone is never cold,
It tells the tales of journeys long
And human hurt consoled.
Sharonne Price