Lady Chapel, Ely Cathedral.

There’s no purifying fire, though it’s source, the sun

blazes, somewhere, out of sight,

just purifying light.

The blue above the Fens, Prussian, lapis lazuli, azure,

scattered in the atmosphere, 

contrasting with the grey-gold-white

of limestone lamella, hymenophore,

pours through plain panes, making things clear.

The stone crowd, once gathered in niches, is no more.

There’s only Modern Mary, plump in pleated  gown,

as if months have passed since she conceived,

arms raised to Heaven, eyes down.

And only a few living souls stand, stunned,

gazing in awe,

struck, not by stained, chromatic decoration,

but by destruction, desecration, 

which yet seems cure,

a counterintuitive restoration,

not just of faith in God,

but in the superior skills and determination, 

of men who believed,

though so much of what they achieved

is no longer there.

Now there is only clarity
what is left, laid bare,

peace, calm

flooding through each warped, transparent plane,
creating here and there a lens,

Magnificat Dominum

pouring through

this ‘Ship of the Fens’
this miracle of the warp-land plain,

this place, whose space was ever pure,

so that we’re bathed by balm 

the grace that spills across each embrasure.