The statues have been getting wetter and wetter.

Always standing (they have no beds), they darken

In the downpour. Even if we scrape the moss and lichen

From their features as it comes, they won’t get better,

But will grow more nimbus-like until the day

It is impossible to be quite sure

Who everybody is. The only cure

For being them is the persistent way

They stay just as they are and let that leave them.

Faces, drapery and fingers, all

That once looked liked ourselves, erodes or breaks,

And none of this, we say, will ever grieve them.

And yet they look so sad! Their bodies can recall

Sunshine on the stoneyard. The damp stone aches.