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.
