Nidaros

At Stiklestad Christian King Olav fell.

Slain by heathen Norse, his martyred bloodied corpse

Was buried in the Nid’s preserving sands.

From which, a twelvemonth later, there emerged

A Saint, rose-sweet, hair and nails still growing

From uncorrupted hands.

Centuries on, his tomb beside meandering Nid

Is crowned by carved magnificence. Soapstone, marble,

Schist and gneiss soar in elegant green-coppered spire

And gothic, Saint encrusted west façade,

Whose central rubied-eye the setting sun inflames

With everlasting fire.

Most northerly cathedral, unfinished it remains.

Perched atop The Patriachs and Kings, the patient mason waits

Last stone in hand, ears cocked for judgement’s knell.

Then, place the missing piece; complete the carver’s art,

While flooding fjord saints and spire engulf,

And doom tolls on its bell.