All you want to do is trace your finger over
the ribbed outline of Mother Mary, trapped in cathedral glass.
But she is exalted on the wall, the kind of beauty that you can never really reach.
Shapes tessellate the window, like sunlight at the bottom of a rockpool,
but in beautiful cellophane colours, and warmly translucent.
Regardless of one’s religion, who could argue against the extraordinary beauty of cathedrals.
Of course people marry here. The glass is stronger than brittle.
The white light allowed through is first humbled into its constituent colours,
painting the floor iridescent. A holy high roof occasionally blessed by birds.
I was baptised in a cathedral and will likely marry in one; have my funeral in one.
I don’t think I believe in God;
I’m not sure of any Providence.
But for me, Mother Mary is not a spirit,
but the beauty in flowers,
and the beauty in you appreciating them.
Jesus is not a god, but that reminder in your head,
when you’re caught in a downpour,
to smile at the decision to leave your umbrella at home,
because you haven’t had a true shower like this in years,
and you have never felt more liberated.
I think that’s what the disciples were talking about.
The Buddhists, Taoists, Judaists, Muslims,
I think that’s what they meant
when they spoke of enlightenment and faith,
but it all got muddled somewhere along the way.