They told me how one architect
cast himself as St Thomas
to look out over
the rooftops
in perpetuity–
a sentinel of the Île,
to dawns, the rains,
those low gold winter sunsets,
the Seine grown vein-dark
by evening, bridge spans
reflected to form
perfect spheres of sky–
transient beauty,
it was a later addition,
the apostles on the spire,
nothing lasts forever
as it stands
and nothing stands forever
but they took down
those statues
a few days ago
for what little that is worth
OPTIONAL POETRY 
Reblogged this on O at the Edges and commented:
Read C’s poem, and watch the ashes flutter away…
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Thank you for sharing this!
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It was my pleasure!
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Thank you so much!
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Thank you!
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