Dreaming maybe of things above rather than below, for your pointing never sleeps and you rise constantly heavenwards. Do you still sense the azure skies when the fog swirls around your outstretched fingers? Gargoyles guard the guttering, spewing forth the rainwater that runs down your tiled feathers like water off a duck’s back, Eckhart’s weather passing, of little concern. A little colder maybe, but the shine on the ancient patchwork clay then picked out by heavenly rays is worth the shudder of discomfort. This high up, one must learn to behave like a mountain, regal and rigid, lording it over the pilgrims cowering under the rushing water below.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com