December, 1999 we stood outside
Lincoln Cathedral – watched darkness fall.
Saw its triple towers take on a softer light.
Our pilgrimage, this - our last ditch attempt, as if,
by some miracle, this would make you well again.
We went inside – you lit a candle.
Your dad, me and Rich, lit one for you,
for all the good I thought it would do,
wishing all the time your faith could be mine.
The Imp, blown here by the wind, so legend dictates,
looked down, po-faced, from the Angel Choir.
Once more outside, to ochre-shadowed walls
we were drawn, through floodlit gardens.
Strains of evensong, along with your prayers, rising
ever high to blood-red skies, mingled with the scent
of binding jasmine – yellow flowered, bare-stemmed.
I offered mine to a flock of wild-geese.
Silver winged they flew, bound for home,
somewhere, the other side of a winter’s moon.