Aubade in Rosslyn Chapel

By Jennifer Franklin​                 

I went to sit where other writers
had sat before, under carved rosettes,
lilies, and stars. To see Satan bound
upside down, green men with ferns
sprouting from their mouths. To sit
below the Apprentice Pillar, wonder
if it would be worth crafting such
beauty if it meant being murdered
by your master. I came for the dance
of death for the instrument-playing
seraphim, but I did not expect
a dog to watch the whole service
on the cold stone floor. Least of all,
did I expect to pray, as I sat alone
while the congregants received
communion. To close my eyes and see
my daughter, fixed in a green field
feeding a herd of goats. To beg, though I
have not believed in decades, for her
admission to that farm where she could
learn to do one small thing well. So that
her thin wrist could bend and place each
piece of feed into their waiting mouths.