by Tom Davy
The ceiling splays a fresco for the crowds.
The round Sheldonian, Truth lies on high
And falls like words of Latin from the clouds
Whose black betrays the turquoise of their sky.
Time is not ours. So every stroke of brush
That paints the ring paints every second too;
We find ourselves entwined in circled hush,
Not seeing for ourselves the deeper blue:
Designs design our days. Drawing lines
On paper’s pulse could he have known his role?
Now through a lens the daylight here confines
To Wren, and in the wood lies his scroll.
A pantry in the mind with life stacked tall
Holds shelves off which our mind’s designs will fall.