Out here in the darkness

of late evening, my senses

reconfigure themselves – the

chill air embraces my cheeks as

small creatures squeak in the

undergrowth of narrow lanes


And there again sounds the hoot

of an owl – and ferns brush past

my lower limbs – and then I hear

another hoot – an answered call

perhaps in ways that owls converse -

and mulched leaves carpet the road

wherein I sense my forebears trod


What drives me here I cannot say

I have no desire to pray as once I did

in my earlier days – when I saw the

Salvationists collecting for the down

and outs and sang their Holy hymns

whilst Sunny Jims like me with breath of

beery fumes, lit up a fag, both ears agog


Trying to work their message out as they

clinked collection cans for coins – or if a

toff a note might squeeze inside the tin.

Somewhere there is a church bell chime

that keeps in rhythm with my mood and

calmer thoughts. Thank goodness now

that Halloween has gone and Pumpkin


faces tossed away – we may think of other

things like carols and a manger where they

say aSaviour once was born in Bethlehem.

And did I imagine it just now the Angel’s

voices that I heard from yonder choir stalls

coming from inside the vaulted space. And

now I see the porch light lit – what ought

I do now – have I the brass to enter in


making mock confessions of a sin I hadn’t

done, when Christians seem to need to get

you hooked and book you in fore evermore.

Should I peer inside the door whence pours

the Holy music and the organ sounds – or

should I hover round outside, because of pride?

And now, I see a waving hand beckoning me inside

and some strange compulsion draws me to go in. 




No comments posted yet.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message