by s.mckeown

Above her soars the limestone web,
spun by Mason's sweat and blood.
the lattice weave, the hem of God,
a sacred knit of glass and lead.

Across the floor, the bin wheels squeak,
She genuflects with brush in hand.
Her callous knees in service bent,
she scrubs across the hallowed span.

Below her brush the nobles lay,
Asleep beneath the sword and mail.
They’re whispered query “What’s thy name?”
Her answer: “Your lady with a mop and pail”.

They feel her hands across their names,
Her brush across their titled crest.
Again the martyrs side by side,
are soothed again to calm and rest.

God might judge their bloodied past,
Or wake them to the wrath to come.
Until that time she’ll tend their sleep
Beneath the Abbey’s sky of stone.