I CANTERBURY

Another tourist, I climb the pilgrims’ steps
Curiously shamed by the mute ecstasies of God,
Of the masons. Do the faithless have martyrs?
A stone marks Becket’s murder on a Tuesday.
I think, cynically, he could have locked the door.
His body, cut ear to ear, lay in the crypt
Still wearing the hair shirt of a pauper.
His brain oozed new symbols on the pavement.
Above a dozen gibbering languages,
Bell Harry tolls a faith of centuries.
A barefoot king, I pay my penny’s penance,
Reflecting on this rich earth beneath heaven’s lantern.
Freemasons, grotesque and smiling,
Stare down from their permanent heights.