A cathedral of feathers
would weigh almost nothing
and be easy to move
but some people are allergic;
it might attract cats.
If choir or congregation
breathed out,
faith would blow away.
The god is not to be sneezed at.
The cathedral of light
is a beacon in the dark,
consumes more power
than it generates,
disturbs the sleep of all.
There are no shadows
or room for wonder.
Everything is illuminated
and bleached out.
The cathedral of flesh
is momentary and fluid,
collapses into disarray,
longing and memory
rekindled as desire.
The cathedral of milk
is pure white
but not needed by adults,
has turned sour and bitter
over time.
The dream cathedral
is the greatest of all
but is never finished.
Its spires touch heaven,
its stained glass windows
contain every colour,
its tower is the tallest
in the land, its nave
and choir the emptiest.
A paper cathedral
can be unfolded
and folded at will.
One square sheet
and a few deft moves
see it gently lock
into place. It can be
recycled or made again.
Rupert Loydell is a writer, editor and abstract artist. His many books of poetry include Dear Mary (Shearsman, 2017) and The Return of the Man Who Has Everything (Shearsman 2015); and he has edited anthologies such as Yesterday’s Music Today (co-edited with Mike Ferguson, Knives Forks and Spoons Press 2014), and Troubles Swapped for Something Fresh: manifestos and unmanifestos (Salt, 2010).
