WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL A temple. A tomb. A fossil to some. A gravestone grounded and preserved in its own green lagoon of ancient England. A twenty legged relic. The insides scooped out and picked clean, leaving dead bones, pew benches and floor full of headstones -paving slabs for oblivious tourists like us stroll over. In this cavernous sanctuary, you are made to feel small. Ant-like Insects under almighty pillars and a roof held so highly In the rafters it was like, gazing up at some spectacular backbone - A whale spine, fossilized in stone, scrubbed clean for centuries but stinking with history. Like the King's bones, found at the bottom of a rubbish heap, or the lone diver who saved the cathedral from sinking with his own hands. These deep thoughts were surfacing... The tracery in places is a cobweb, spun over its crypt And the coffins of Kings, bundled and suspended there in belief. Stonemasons have chipped out the image of a hung Christ the irony, holding him there, in the jointed weight of his agony and relief. -Soul-liberator, death-defyer, world-beater. I take your hand, turn the knob of faith, pass through that bodiless door embodied in Christ - Like Jonahs out of the monster's mouth. Outside is the daylight, my dear. Outside is the daylight. -- Johnathon Hicks