Waiting for Godden: Poem / Cathedrals

Saturday 23 March 2013

Poem / Cathedrals

CATHEDRALS

each morning we build cathedrals, we decorate them with sea shells and eyelash salt, warm light and dreams of butterflies.

but by nightfall nothing remains but trampled sand castles, coppery, tarnished green, a fear of the night that drowns us, then the sea that washes it away.

each morning we build cathedrals, we decorate them with gold dust and sea salt kisses, chocolates and silver rings and summer dreams of flying flowers.

but by nightfall nothing remains but a tramp and his dog pissing in winters doorway, a fear of the fear as the blood of Friday night, washes us away.

each morning we build cathedrals, we decorate them with violet dawn light and dreams of flying, and dreams of dreams of flying.

but by nightfall nothing remains but a list of things to do and a mesh of things unanswered, and the dreadful knowledge that we are not what we intend to do - we are what we already did, intentionally.

and each morning we build cathedrals, this one is made of sandpaper, we decorate it with glitter, phosphorus and ribbons, we ink and hand print our best intentions, we brush it with milk and prick it with a fork and bake it.

by dusk, nothing remains but a rusty caravan, empty balloons are ripped condoms, there’s the fear of the plump shadow, and the vodka and the cunts wash all your wishes down, with the laughter like a drain.

this morning you built a cathedral, you rose, you bloomed with prick, kick and thorns, this one has a thick skin of rubber, it will be as soft and yielding as time, forgiving and elastic as love, over and over, again.

(c) Cathedrals by Salena Godden / 2013

thank you for supporting ‘Springfield Road’ and all crowd funded books, independent publishers and bookshops, together we build cathedrals: http://unbound.co.uk/books/springfield-road