A Thorn

A thorn from a plaited instrument of passion

A barb from Ziziphus spina-christi

Secreted in a weather vane in 1801

Now fallen from a burning spire

Inside a shell tougher

Than any egg

 

Survived the raging fire that

Roasted the rooster

It’s black twisted body

Wrought but not destroyed

Drenched by hoses and fire

A miracle

 

Two days later ash and tang of charred timber

Hang in the air

The fund to rebuild Notre Dame

Reached a billion euros

The thorn shall come home to roost on high

Again, a spiritual lightning rod