until flame
makes its claim.
As it did.
Where the slain
and beatified
King Olav,
The one who brought
the Book and the Chalice
with arrow, sword,
and torture
to this pagan place,
was buried inside three layers
of silver and jeweled wood.
And the church burned.
Four times since Olav
was entombed and sainted
a thousand years ago.
But the stone remained.
The Nidaros Cathedral
still stands.
On the ground above
St Olav’s tomb.
Rebuilt,
with carve-able
silvery black soapstone,
which loves the touch
of hands and lips,
the caress, the kiss
replaced the staves,
and the northernmost
gothic church
was built.
And that dark stone,
so meticulously inscribed
with hammer and chisel
invites the gentle hand
to touch inside.
Where centuries
of pilgrims’ breath
and candle smoke
warm the stone
like a beloved’s body.
I’m glad.
That the guide,
the pleasant young man
in the orange-ish
full length gown,
doesn’t require us
to have an earbud
whispering in one ear.
We note the styles,
the Romanesque arches
versus the later Gothic
structural improvements.
The places
touched by a million hands
darkened, worn,
and warmed, resonate.
Devotion, grace,
and sorrow,
love.
There is no time
left to browse
the gift shop
next door,
the bus is waiting
to carry us up
to the heights above
to view the city
from where two lines
of cannons
brood.
The autumn sun
carves half a rainbow’s arc
over the cathedral
below.
The golden glow
of the air almost feels
warm
on this misty hill
in Trondheim.
Is it enough to know,
bestow,
that we all are
as promised, even in
our sorrows
beloved?
