Dan Jellinek
The Cold Cathedral
The man ran off down the street
Like a man running fast down a street.
He wanted to get to the cold cathedral,
And he was late for the glorious funeral;
He no longer thought of arrival on time.
The snow fell, in white flakes of various dimensions,
Flaky crystallised precipitation,
And settled with varying success in white shapes
On his brown jacket.
His brown jacket, an exploitation
Of brown material,
Grew damp,
Dusted with the damp white flakes.
When the church hove into view,
He felt like a man whose zenith
Is about to be reached,
And slowed down, like one who decelerates,
Not associating breathlessness with cathedrals.
The great gates were locked with a huge iron padlock,
extremely unlike the feathery stars of snow;
And as he turned to walk back
Like a man who has mistaken the time
He was buried alive bv the vicious snow
On the steps of the cold cathedral.
The snow cascaded down
Like a man running fast down a street.
He rests now, under the soaking earth
Furred with grass, and plastic, and gravel,
Little filters through of the frost and the rain
And the plastic roses remain on the surface,
Occasionally dusted with brilliant confetti
Or the urine of tramps.
Like a man running fast down a street.
He wanted to get to the cold cathedral,
And he was late for the glorious funeral;
He no longer thought of arrival on time.
The snow fell, in white flakes of various dimensions,
Flaky crystallised precipitation,
And settled with varying success in white shapes
On his brown jacket.
His brown jacket, an exploitation
Of brown material,
Grew damp,
Dusted with the damp white flakes.
When the church hove into view,
He felt like a man whose zenith
Is about to be reached,
And slowed down, like one who decelerates,
Not associating breathlessness with cathedrals.
The great gates were locked with a huge iron padlock,
extremely unlike the feathery stars of snow;
And as he turned to walk back
Like a man who has mistaken the time
He was buried alive bv the vicious snow
On the steps of the cold cathedral.
The snow cascaded down
Like a man running fast down a street.
He rests now, under the soaking earth
Furred with grass, and plastic, and gravel,
Little filters through of the frost and the rain
And the plastic roses remain on the surface,
Occasionally dusted with brilliant confetti
Or the urine of tramps.
Second Prize of the Bedford Open Poetry Competition
Page(s) 52-53
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