The D. H. Lawrence Memorial Shrine
Dedicated To F. R. Taylor
Viewed from a distance,
It appears to be a gatehouse
Flanked by trees
Supporting heaven.
Reverently,
I climb the gravel path
To Frieda’s grave,
Then enter the portal
Beyond it.
His ashes are interred
Within a white-washed cell.
Exhibited on the wall,
A coroner’s affidavit.
Anchored to the floor,
A bird of plaster
Stands in for an angel,
Who has long since
Departed for home.
Disappointed,
On verge of leaving,
I discover a disciple’s poem.
Emblematic
As a crutch, or other stay
No longer needed,
It proves
There are some who leave
Changed.
Despite its poverty,
His shrine will be esteemed.
It is haunted
By the glimmer from a halo,
This light surrounding Taos,
Which defines the hues of Truth.
I intuit
A greatness that has been,
That could be again.
Come Creator Spirit.
1990’s
stevengoldenpoetry 