Here, where the Grimms once stayed
The church is neither hot nor coldbut place to wait till rain has eased:these effigies have waited till time'snothing: life of action, pain or tears,or blink in geologic span.This dormant woman and her man:how many children did she bear?Could she bear him she sleeps beside?
Some are stacked like supermarketlayers with a knight above each shelf;below, more subtle things to gaze on:sandstone toads on sandstonecorpses, keeping nit till Judgment Daywith worms that glide from cavities.
Though notices ban trespassers,I slip the rope, trace writing oneach bier declaring faith that life'smere pit-stop to eternity. The wormsare long and fat and sleek, makingBraille of eyes and cheeks, while toadshave taken take time off fromtheir inroads: food for thought.The knights lie in between the worldsof as things are and as they'll be.
On tree-sized pillars, painted shieldshave faded out to shadowslike their bearers now defunct.Swords, armour, spurs and othertools of trade are rubbed to bluntby visitors who've walked the aislesthrough centuries, knelt prie dieuxdown to grooves and gawked,felt history and waited out the rainto read the scraps of final hopes:'Ich komme nicht zur Ruhe'or 'Ich danke dir für alles'.
The writers of the Gothic scriptare dumb at length, like those whocarved the wooden saint who holdsa model of this place named for her,though the martial tone is buttressedby another grave in here,containing one world war's greathero who made possible the next:some tourists come to see and feelthat Titan's tomb. The churchattracts all kinds. Avoiding those,I turn back to that pint-sizedfigure even the Reformers leftfor pity. Here, she looks a queenand young: in fact, she wastill grief revealed what lifewas worth and she gave allshe had to feed the poor.
Reflecting on the brutal waythe hierarchy treated her,I see the logic of the placeshe holds in this ambiguous space.Born in murderous times amongsuch vicious things as men becomewhere power is at stake, she standsamong the metal, glass and stone,the warm antipodes of hate.
Others will go in to wait untilthe sun appears again to draw themout, as it did me, though darknessshrouds a dignity past counting.
Michael Sharkey iives at Armidale, New South Wales, and has published several collections of poems. His most recent book is The Sweeping Plain (Five Islands Press, 2007).