The Holder of the Office (Titular)

Lyrics

There is a word for a name without a body.
A title for a place where sheep now graze over forgotten foundations.
A key for a lock that hasn't turned since 1598.
The word is titular.

Reverend Goss holds such a key.
Tarnished brass on a velvet cushion in a drawer.
He is the vicar of a parish dissolved into the London fog centuries ago.
He signs the old ledger in the damp vestry of his mind.
A church of damp parchment and the memory of wax.
His congregation is a hollow echo on the flagstones.

The titular holder of the office.
A shepherd with no flock.
A name in a book, a robe on a hook.
A sermon for the sea-mist and the listening rock.
Just the holding. That is the work.

Pemba holds such a title, too.
Abbot of a windswept hall, high in the thin air.
His wooden staff is carved with faded lotus flowers.
He lights a single butter lamp for monks who never arrived.
The prayer flags send their blessings to the empty courtyard.
His chant is answered only by the spinning of a prayer wheel in the wind.

The titular holder of the office.
A shepherd with no flock.
A name in a book, a robe on a hook.
A sermon for the sea-mist and the listening rock.
Just the holding. That is the work.

Here on Point Nemo, two such men.
One with his imaginary St. Botolph's.
The other with his Drepung Monastery of the mind.
They meet at the sea wall and say nothing of it.
They understand the dignity of an empty chair.
The quiet faith of keeping a title warm against the cold.

A name without a body.
A key that fits a memory.
The holding.
Just the holding.