Inside a medieval cathedral
My mind wanders
As monotone voices
Raise Latin prayers outward
And upward,
Reaching beyond
The magnificent frescoes
Of an imaginary
Holy world;
And as my eyes go
From ancient pew
To ancient pew,
They come to rest
On an equally magnificent
Figure.
Garbed entirely
In black lace.
She is a slight figure
Sitting with back held
Straight,
Her silver-haired head
Bowed beneath
Her black lace veil.,
Her face in profile
And partially obscured
Wears its great age
With both
Great grace
And humble pride.
Not for the first time
Have I hungered
For the talent for
Portraiture;
But I can only try
To recreate her image
With carefully chosen
Yet inadequate words.
I don't question
Who she is,
For I already know!
She is
The matron of
The ages,
Sent by God
To inspire
Via faith
Or fable;
And as
The service fades
From my immediate
Attention
I find I am moved
By both.