Black Spire

Dressed in robes of soot
from Merrie City chimneys.
Jet cathedral walls.

Burnt toast by Bread street,
pointing to God in heaven
under Yorkshire skies.

Protects souls inside
from the searing heat of hell.
Charcoal sinners flesh.

Wakefield’s grubby church
sitting atop Westgate’s throne
like a nesting crow.

The centuries turn,
blackening on a slow spit
that dominates man.

Cleanliness next to
Godliness they always say.
Our prayers are answered.

In my time of youth
they blast the walls with water
under high pressure.

Now a cleansed steeple
sees the millennium out.
New enlightenment.