Saints and Sinners of weathered stone,
the silent portrayals of flesh and bone,
look down from the dome of St Paul’s.
Below in the square, people fuss and moan.
What to wear? – The hats, the macs, the shirts,
the skirts, changing with the year and every
new season, petty strifes beyond all reason.
And the idle, sitting on a bench, or prostrate,
oblivious to grass, damp with summer showers.
A schoolboy trudges by with bag slung high
A baby gurgles from a red hooded pram and
Dad with colored plastic toy pacifies his child.
Then youths in harsh raucous voices rush by,
yabbering together in excited garbled Greek.
The stone faces peek from their erie height,
from their ledges of laurel, vine and grape,
and with a knowing smile – for their creator
had seen – the relentless play of all human life,
retraced year upon year, decade upon decade
as each generation is laid to rest, replaced
by the new and the resplendently dressed,
rushing through life with no thought of their rest.
