Radiance and Memorial at Ely
Climb the stairs,
see the struts and rafters,
flaking paint and wooden beams,
this entangled, behind-the-scenes structure,
rising discreetly
through cathedral grandeur
above city hubbub and fen majesty,
breaking out
into eight sided glory,
light shafting in
from east and west,
north and south
as the day moves
through its paces.
Octagon of splendour
replacing dark, medieval tower
torn down by gravity
and weathering
to worshippers' delight.
They recognised oppression
and release,
knew shadows hid places
sun's rays should expose,
saw clearly opportunity
and celebrated unexpected light
releasing building and people
to a thousand years
of radiance.
Climb high
and find another piece
of Ely's story.
This Lantern,
built for bright hope,
now, in a war-wracked summer,
intriguingly enfolds
to itself another tale,
hides it well
in mother church's breast.
As boots ascend
and khaki legs
brush cobwebbed walls,
irreverent cigarette butt
falling, unnoticed, here,
railway ticket (soon to be missed at station booth)
dropped there,
this great fen ship
receives into her wooden frame names
etched in pencil - black and red,
prophetic shades of soil and blood -
signatures of soldier lads
who've come to tea
and evensong
and a last long look across the fenland
to the villages of their birth.
Climb to witness
on eight tall shutters this record
of spirited, youthful soldier pals
from dyke-side hamlets
to which scarce few returned,
a secret, sombre memorial
carved in the heady expectation
of a summer's afternoon,
read now in winter gloom
with chilly hindsight;
a hundred years since
clear young lungs
made short work
of eight score stairs and five,
jostled and joked
at the sudden view
of drains and meres that nurtured them
never before seen from so far above.
No shadow of gas or gangrene or trench,
no care for shell or fire or bullet
yet oppressing mind and soul.
Each went out to dark or glory,
Ely's Lantern recording
only their names
and, by direction,
the village of their birth.
The fenland offered up her best;
they disappeared
as silently as if marsh mists
had swallowed up her own,
Saint Etheldreda's great church
storing the secret
this hundred years,
loyal to sons
whose growing up she oversaw
with ecclesial distance,
whom now she celebrates
with circumspect pride,
holding for history's gaze
a tale of lives too short
and wars unstoppable.
Still, today, the daily prayers
of Etheldreda's community
breathed, as they are, beneath
this frame of lightsome hospitality
implore the throwing down
of dark towers cradling enmity,
search out the wellheads
of hope and charity and peace,
entreating the Divine to spare us
ever again such mockery of youthful optimism.
©Janet Henderson 26th September 2016, revised November 2016
These beautiful photos of the Lantern and aisle at Ely Cathedral were taken by Revd Phil Sharkey and used with his kind permission. I have long admired his wonderful photographs of Cambridgeshire and the Fens which always seem to me to capture the unique essence of the area - one which I grew to love during the years I lived in Cambridge and Wisbech. To contact Phil about his photos, revphilsharkey@gmail.com
If you climb up into the Lantern at Ely, you can see for yourself the signatures that imprinted themselves on my heart and cannot but lodge in the memory of anyone who reads them.
see the struts and rafters,
flaking paint and wooden beams,
this entangled, behind-the-scenes structure,
rising discreetly
through cathedral grandeur
above city hubbub and fen majesty,
breaking out
into eight sided glory,
light shafting in
from east and west,
north and south
as the day moves
through its paces.
Octagon of splendour
replacing dark, medieval tower
torn down by gravity
and weathering
to worshippers' delight.
They recognised oppression
and release,
knew shadows hid places
sun's rays should expose,
saw clearly opportunity
and celebrated unexpected light
releasing building and people
to a thousand years
of radiance.
 |
| © Revd Phil Sharkey 2016 'The All Seeing Eye' |
Climb high
and find another piece
of Ely's story.
This Lantern,
built for bright hope,
now, in a war-wracked summer,
intriguingly enfolds
to itself another tale,
hides it well
in mother church's breast.
As boots ascend
and khaki legs
brush cobwebbed walls,
irreverent cigarette butt
falling, unnoticed, here,
railway ticket (soon to be missed at station booth)
dropped there,
this great fen ship
receives into her wooden frame names
etched in pencil - black and red,
prophetic shades of soil and blood -
signatures of soldier lads
who've come to tea
and evensong
and a last long look across the fenland
to the villages of their birth.
Climb to witness
on eight tall shutters this record
of spirited, youthful soldier pals
from dyke-side hamlets
to which scarce few returned,
a secret, sombre memorial
carved in the heady expectation
of a summer's afternoon,
read now in winter gloom
with chilly hindsight;
a hundred years since
clear young lungs
made short work
of eight score stairs and five,
jostled and joked
at the sudden view
of drains and meres that nurtured them
never before seen from so far above.
No shadow of gas or gangrene or trench,
no care for shell or fire or bullet
yet oppressing mind and soul.
 |
| © Revd Phil Sharkey 2016 'Octagon Floodlit' |
Each went out to dark or glory,
Ely's Lantern recording
only their names
and, by direction,
the village of their birth.
The fenland offered up her best;
they disappeared
as silently as if marsh mists
had swallowed up her own,
Saint Etheldreda's great church
storing the secret
this hundred years,
loyal to sons
whose growing up she oversaw
with ecclesial distance,
whom now she celebrates
with circumspect pride,
holding for history's gaze
a tale of lives too short
and wars unstoppable.
Still, today, the daily prayers
of Etheldreda's community
breathed, as they are, beneath
this frame of lightsome hospitality
implore the throwing down
of dark towers cradling enmity,
search out the wellheads
of hope and charity and peace,
entreating the Divine to spare us
ever again such mockery of youthful optimism.
©Janet Henderson 26th September 2016, revised November 2016
 |
| @ Revd Phil Sharkey 2016 'Nave' |
These beautiful photos of the Lantern and aisle at Ely Cathedral were taken by Revd Phil Sharkey and used with his kind permission. I have long admired his wonderful photographs of Cambridgeshire and the Fens which always seem to me to capture the unique essence of the area - one which I grew to love during the years I lived in Cambridge and Wisbech. To contact Phil about his photos, revphilsharkey@gmail.com
If you climb up into the Lantern at Ely, you can see for yourself the signatures that imprinted themselves on my heart and cannot but lodge in the memory of anyone who reads them.
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