Micaelis Me Fecit
(Latin for 'Michael Made Me')
There lies a town in northern Spain
(thank God it's little-known!)
where every chapel, church and fane
is hewn from honey stone.
Nice chunky arches, columns too,
with barley-sugar twist:
and gargoyles, griffins, gremlins who
quite cordially coexist.
To stroll here is to turn, with love,
some bestiary's bold pages,
and marvel at the mindset of
those early Middle Ages.
Capricious carvings crowd one door,
coeval "carls" of Beckett:
and, scratched into one caricature,
Micaelis Me Fecit.
The mason sits in effigy,
a chisel in his hand.
He eyes us quite audaciously:
that look, we understand.
He doesn't care for Time or Fame,
or Wealth, or Noble Birth:
that "Michael Made Me," is his claim:
and Michael knows his worth.
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