And what beauty is there in an old oak door?
Or a blue shuttered window?
Or a defaced red ocre brick from Bologna?
Or in tired stone?
Or lead gutter?
Or in a worn brass handle?
Perhaps the Architect, the Mason, the Joiner, or Smithy could explain,
How the remnants of their souls remain?
Or maybe it’s just the want in me,
To see these things how I wish them to be?
Or maybe it’s simply,
through no fault of my own,
That I recognise myself
In the hewn grey stone?