Sterling

In a cloister in a city,
Traffic beyond the walls
Sounds a hum drone, passive, lifeless
But for horns- horns-
That call out from the streets.

A cornered enclave of stonework
Harbors strange stonework
Ivy and armored crusaders,
Proud in stained glass,
With lions at their feet.

They stand guard over cigarette
Ends, dead leaves, and litter,
Humorlessly, dutifully
Watching themselves,
Forever, stand in place.