Ode To a Gargoyle
I pass you several times a week
down at the Cheapside junction
your name defines the job you do
but you perform no function.
No drainage from the upper roofs
no demons are you scaring,
the passers-by stream past
with ninety-nine percent not caring.
The occasional ghost walk party pause
to check you out, inspecting
the mossy run down shell of the old building
you're protecting.
Some folk may say that you're a waste
of all the time you've been there
but I've been inside and you outshine
the architecture in there.
An outcast among gargoyles, by the doorway,
out of place
maybe because the Mason gave you such a charming face.
Spectator to the march of time, ignored
though you may be,
console yourself as you gaze down-
you have a friend in me.
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