At The Globe

Black and white walls rising in soft plaster and wood

against the frigid glass and chrome of modern London.

Contemporary buildings, cold, cold,

not warm like the wooden beams

touched by a hundred hands

each day, by pilgrims visiting the theatre

to find their place in the audience,

to find their place spectating

on words written four hundred years ago

by an itinerant actor from Stratford.

Now, the building stands, as they still stand, groundlings, penny stinkards,

a testament to an actor’s passion

for those words, which moved him to move

earth, sky and business

to raise money enough to buy back part of our heritage,

to remake that which was once unmade by fire,

and reforge the wooden and plaster palace of dreams once again.

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