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.