Who says colonial history
Doesn’t speak to us anymore.
Just look at the gothic spires,
The ball flower ornament,
Of the cream and red sandstones
Of the All Saints Cathedral and
You will see the darkening moss
Spreading like a sermon
Telling a story of mango-dappled afternoons,
Guava scented mornings
of a place where Christ became global
In form and content.
The cloisters are still
Dark and cold in summers,
The stained glass baptistery
Silently biblical and apocalyptic,
The reredo behind the marble alter still redolent
Of a belief in miracles,
The nave with dark teak pews
Still echo with the voice of childhood,
If you strain your ears you can still hear
The dull soft choir of yesteryears
Now mixed with the cooing of roosting doves
And the decrepit movement of impermanence.
