Two Poems By Harris Coverley…

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,

And nowhere.

“Harris Coverley has verse published or forthcoming in Polu TexniCalifornia QuarterlyStar*LineSpectral RealmsCorvus ReviewThe Cannon’s MouthNovel NoctuleTales from the Moonlit Path, Danse MacabreOnce Upon A Crocodile, and many others. He lives in Manchester, England.”

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