The Methuselah Master by John Ronan Workers wouldn’t use Methuselah Master Addressing the flesh and blood who stained Old Testament Canterbury glass. It was Tom, Dick, or Harry, a fellow Craftsman standing on tippy scaffolds Who shared weather and beer and bread, A casual laugh—certainly jokes Went ’round in the 12th century, Though Becket lay below, Scarcely cold, and the forebear Patriarch Glared back in toga and sash, Knees splayed with enough assurance To bring off the blue shoes. As surely today, conservators in the clerestory Who wage war on dust and wind, Share a knock-knock or gossip - The Cup and drugs, royalty, relegation... And guides, who direct the limitless inattention Of visiting kids to monuments and tombs, Add anecdotes, nicknames and praise— Volunteers and a nod from UNESCO extending The lessons of great age and art, The Cathedral itself, into millennial Kent. Several ancestors of Christ, as Jared And Lamech, Noah, are identified with the Master. The celebrated series, widely imitated, Is sometimes loaned to other institutions In the business of world heritage—and so shown To similar effect at the Getty, the Met.