I love this spire at St Michaels church around the corner, its wooden-tiled exposure to the elements, the wet and heat and rot, eventual disintegration. I love the spiky nervousness of its heaven-quest, the splintery tiles, beginning to flake and peel away, threatened by gravity, the risk of falling towards an earthly hell.
The patina of despair like an invisible force around the urgent upward thrust. A wooden rocket of faith, ready to take off now for a hundred years, trapped in its moorings.
Nice peice of poetry Mr Blobz.