The Landmark Bob Meszaros Below the golden bell-shaped dome, their black handâ€™s leaching rust, the clocks have stopped. The belfry with its paired pilasters, its round arched louvered openings. is slowly turning red. On balustrade, on wooden urns, on cornice, on each clock face, the white paint cracks, then peels. Forgotten, the past is rotting overhead: its metal hands and numbers weep; its bared wood festers like an open wound. And on a finial, atop the golden bell-shaped dome, as if waiting for restoration to be done, day after day, week after week, the weathervane is still.
Published on May 18, 2017