NOTRE DAME
Anthony Robottom
I was in that place, a place I had read about.
A place in the movies.
A place where Quasimodo and Esmerelda
had lived and loved.
He was deaf and she was killed.
A gypsy linched for loving.
Even if he was a freak.
Others were in that place.
Tourists were inside.
Pilgrims were inside.
School kids were inside.
Priests were inside.
Prayers were inside.
I was in. With the others, but not.
There was darkness.
But there was glittering of gold.
There were glow worms on the walls.
There were the heavy smells of many burning spices.
There were arches curving through that black,
reaching heavenward.
Glimpses of stone, directing my thoughts.
There were my thoughts somehow.
There had been the sermons of centuries.
There had been the visitors of centuries.
I wonder if they felt the same.
After a bus journey like mine did they feel like this?
This magic of place and time.
The cathedral a capsule through time
had travelled along the centuries, until it met with me.