William the bastard Norman knew
what he was doing. The crypt at Ripon’s
Saxon, it can’t afford to forget.
Cathedral which discounts forgetting
cannot wholly credit Christian loving
kindness, whose kind are dead
however they came by their death,
2. 2. 69
however they entered in their estate
at home or far from. You walk
upon graves; also the dead rise up
walls of Ripon, they
lie down in aisles
asleep in figures you speak them,
they do not rest
in middle-aged shroudings,
in Augustan bad taste, are housewives
who carefully looked after, are soldierly chaps
put by through forced marches,
swept overboard in a nasty sea.
elegant letters say on plaques,
however the choir school sings to praise
the transept’s handsomely painted ceiling
or the clock off handed deals you out
reminders of passing
they do not forgive.
Ripon stalls the dead. The matter’s not settled,
the work not done as yet.