Evensong at Ripon Cathedral

We drifted along country roads at Whitsuntide

and knew to time our stops for evensong,

whose prayerful tones enliven soaring stones,

jeweled glass, carven imps and saints

in groins and misericords.

Those glorious sounds of piety

That remind forgetful tourists. 

Hands joined, we pressed unwelcoming doors

And entered plain red brick.

In chilly silence, softly down an aisle

we padded, sat, and turned to view behind us

the gilded columns of scores of organ pipes

that loomed above the narthex.

Silence wrapped us till a breath of fluting song,

in harmony of candid purity—

choristers' voices, sheer as gossamer

flung across the lofty nave. Priest and choir,

five worshippers the only congregation.

After the liturgy’s enameled phrases, responses

sung as if by angels—not those ordinary boys

in red and white who paced behind the cross.

I turned to look again at soundless brazen instruments

above. No trumpet, lullaby or roar to shake stone and glass—

the very air around us, alas.

The caroling files now past, suddenly burst

from those mighty throats, like a dam breached,

flooding us, awed and lowly listeners

the way the ocean reminds the sands

how minuscule they are.