i read 'small talk'
out loud
at the ripon cathedral,
opening the fourth
annual poetry festival.

i always wanted to light
a candle for him.
but maybe
what i did tonight
will count for more
than a tealight
priced at a pound.

i read about him
and the way
i hold his memory
in this monastery
from the seventh century
and my voice
climbed the arches
dressed in stone.

i doubt
he could hear me
but i hope he knows
i’ll guard him
like a fragile note
cradled in velvet,
no matter how far he is
from home.