Notre Dame has risen from the ashes, her towers re-opening to the public just last month, September 2025. A jewel of gothic architecture, Notre Dame de Paris is, in my opinion, the most beautiful cathedral in France with its stunning stained glass windows and Rosaces, its world-renowned organ, its treasures, a spiritual haven for Christians, and others, round the world. This poem was written decades ago when I first came to live in Paris, when I had the privilege of living next to her, with a stupendous view from my window onto her north Rosace. Those many years ago, before going to work each morning, I was able to walk round the almost empty cathedral and wonder at the physical and spiritual beauty.
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
