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Poem

Beneath the singing glass is a brick tower
where the gargoyles spit raspberries and whistle at passerby
On top cracked stained glass and crumbling masonry
Pigeons roost in its eaves, their feathers snowing on the ground
The clouds pass over the wilting copper vaults
The once-proud buttresses sweeping endlessly to the sky
Ivy creeps pitilessly onward, green upon green and stone
It noses its way into hidden nooks where the beetles sleep
Underneath saint's feet they hide
Safe from the wind that slips through the weathered brown pews
The bats here hang from the supports, twitching their flaring noses at the mice far below
Pitying them for their puny arms
While the mice look up, pitying their cousins for their ungainly legs
As the owl pities them all, for he is the one who perches on the singing glass
He surveys his cathedral with sharp yellow eyes, struck through by blackness
His wings spread over his dominion, unshakable 
His talons grip the metal that hold the ceiling high, feathers twitching over tensed muscles
With his call the pigeons freeze, beady eyes wide with terror
With his silent wingbeat the ivy barely rustles
His flashing eye makes the mice flee into their holes beneath the bricks
The bats cling tightly to their tapestries
Who are they to question the undisputed?
The owl knows his place at the top of the tower
And his subjects know theirs underneath the world.

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