Speechless and desperately sad in front of Notre Dame in flames. This cathedral is the jewel of gothic architecture the most beautiful in France with its stunning stained glass windows and Rosaces, its world renowned organ, its treasures,  a spiritual haven for Christians round the world.  Words cannot express the stupor and horror watching the flames.  While we await the reconstruction works and the investigations opened by the Paris Public Prosecutor’s Office, while we wait to find out exactly what has been destroyed inside as well, here’s a poem  written several years ago celebrating its physical and spritual beauty which has helped millions of believers and non-believers over the centuries. And myself.

Lacelike in majesty,  a mason’s tenderness

in Lutetian limestone, crenellations of intricacy

shadows of intimacy unfurl along buttresses

foundations anchored in generations.

Solid you stand pure white in the sun

while your bells proclaim your Son’s will be done.

Monumental, your place by the Seine,

one thousand years and more you reign.

Kings, queens and paupers line your doors

some headless, some crumbling, the weather-worn flaws

and inside your incense soothes troubled minds

myrrh curling up the clustered columns

soaring to arches searching for light

as we do when we contemplate the prisms

the polychrome spheres of stained-glass lives

illuminating saints, and sinners redeemed.

Rainbow of souls reflected on stone

on lintels and plinths, unlived dreams

wrapped round pillars, resting on tombs

to swathe the dead and lighten those souls

unable to rest while the bell tolls.

The sun casts its fury-of-living through colour

on the life of Christ, the love and betrayal

death, resurrection, a life recovered

portrayed in the windows, on walls and in faces

and people stroll past from faith to unfaith

to faith recast, remembering all the

unsafe moments, discovering the

life of Christ carved in the apse

Peter stunned at the net-full of fish

Thomas turning his head in distrust,

past the confessional, silver with dust

past the candles, some lit and others waiting

while we hesitate