by Matilda Houston-Brown
I go to learn a language at Stoke Minster
speaking Latin, sitting on red cheerful chairs,
leaning over textbooks.
half caught glimpses of stained glass.
I leave before the prayer and praise begins but sometimes
hidden amongst words, the lesson runs a little late,
and a service reverberates around me softly.
static in the entrance hall, I can never quite make out the words
I know when Stoke speaks,
something strongly stubborn about
the way our words cling to our everyday
the way we cling back.
an understood unity,
a symbiosis of sound.
there’s something about pottery
a container for the country,
it seems too mundane, too useful
to ever hold a past
but we hoard history,
gather it up, share, unearth,
offering out our clumps of memories
do you know, we say,
do you just quite know where you stand?
This is Holy Ground.
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