Saving the Cathedral 2

With every Bannockburn there comes a Boyne. The gods grant grain, alleviate our lives, then send us weevils, whitefly, worms (and wives!) They raise us up – then knee us in the groin vaulting. Winchester was built on bog. This marvel of the medieval mind was sitting on (they were appalled to find), nine hundred-year-old spongy, soggy logs. And, year on year, it sagged a little more. As fissures felt their way around the font, and lancet windows listed to the west, so flawed at lauds, and worse at terce for sure: now none at nones was feeling nonchalant. The church was sinking slowly to its rest.