i.
I walk through the streets
of old Spandau
under a sky of slate and zinc
that lets loose its sleet
and drops of pale ink,
filled with burdened clouds
weary from hurrying onward
out of the iron east.

ii.
A church tower stands sentinel
watching over the people fleeing past
on cobbled streets paved with fate.

iii.
Once, to doubt was to believe
as Thomas, bereaved,
called out in awe
My Lord and my God.
Today there’s just doubts,
faith is fleeting as clouds.

iv.
The tower waits,
outwardly strong,
yet forlorn and alone,
abandoned by the faithful
as the sacred slips away.
It watches and waits
in hollow hope of a time
when its hallowed purpose
might yet be whole again.