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I see the pattern of our storied city,
lives laid out in tesserated time.
We stand beneath the statues of our faith,
the winged bulls and brass-clawed lions.
We have seen our children delivered
whole into the burning laps of gods;
we ride the current and endure.
We breathe and worship, buy and bargain.
Merchants brush past in their silk and damask.
We are the middle folk and not the movers;
we have no master but we do not rule.
In the centre all things fade to calm.
On the fulcrum of meridian
we hold our modest aspirations;
we kneel and pray and practise.
One day our words may draw down
reasons from the reckless stars.
This is our life and deep enchantment;
this is our monument and dwelling
as in the gold mosaic of a wall.
--M.A.Griffiths
(Copywrite 2001)
