Young Writers Society

Golden dust motes,
In a glimmering cascade in the air,
From the stained glass windows,
The light spills down, white and pure.


The marble pillars,
Soaring off to the roof,
Their great width vital,
The Pillars of the Earth.


The spire pierces the sky,
Great sandstone blocks,
Yet slender, carved,
In a great everlasting monument.


Inside all is quiet,
That musty spell,
Oh so sweet,
All is calm.


Hush! The building seems to say,
Do not disturb the peace,
That we have created here,
This place of calm; of rest.


An Oaken Throne,
A stone font,
A golden altar,
A host of memories.


Those mediaeval builders,
Have created something so great,
And yet we do not remember their names,
Only what they created, this monument of Faith.


Faith – something different,
To all of us,
Love, Belief, Trust, Knowledge,
Experience.

I leave this holy place,
With a little piece of my heart,
Stolen away,
By the Cathedral of God.