The Chapter House
Feet clatter across the iron grate
As the octagon of stained glass
Reflects the echoes of the faithful
And the unfaithful alike
Marble pillars segregate place from place
Some sections granted the privilege of a name
And the worn walls under sandstone façades
Of the twisted faces of men and beasts
Feel as smooth as ice
Electric bulbs rise bright above unlit candles
Shadows marked on red-gold tiles
Adorned in Turkish flavours
A rogue plug socket spoils
The atmosphere here and there
But what is a plug socket
For the faith of Yorkish souls
Stretched eight centuries back?
Once the Papal consulate in this ancient city
Now converted for the use of an English God
Who drinks tea at four with jam and scones
And who often forgets to believe in himself.
The House of Noun
I, that is I,
Came to the House to state my
I knocked on its door
And a slat opened up,
The darkness beyond
Completed with two deep green eyes.
“What do you wish?” asked that pair
Of eyes with the sweetest voice.
“I wish for a name,” replied I.
And I became I,
And no more,
And no less,
“Harris Coverley has verse published or forthcoming in Polu Texni, California Quarterly, Star*Line, Spectral Realms, Corvus Review, The Cannon’s Mouth, Novel Noctule, Tales from the Moonlit Path, Danse Macabre, Once Upon A Crocodile, and many others. He lives in Manchester, England.”