THE STEEPLE

THE STEEPLE

The steeple’s crown has won you over

As we approach,

A hand to the sky asking the teacher

A question

That you answer with the memory

Of bored Sundays

That granted a waiver to doubt,

As you sat

Next to a mother that believed,

And sought out

Your young mind to grasp what she perceived

To be the way.

The mossy headstones, as we come,

Signal death

To both our mortal, shiny-shoed steps,

And the archway

And its door spell out only decay

And its power,

The power that age, and its forbears,

So pious,

Whispers that life will begin again

When we die,

Because a temple and its maturity

Speaks of it.

We sit on the blanched wooden bench

At the back,

And the priest starts to speak

In a considered

Tone that hints of an intelligence

That knows it all,

That knows that heaven waits

For us all.

And you admit with your gaze

That nothing,

Absolutely nothing, convinces you more,

Of resurrection.

We stand before the pressed robes

As the hymns begin,

And you sing as if your life depends

On the phrasing,

Anxious to please those reverent eyes,

And please Him.

You try to catch the eyes of

The congregation,

A mass of clean-clothed faces

That sing

As you sing, with one eye on life,

One on death.

Finally, the lines stop flowing and

It is over.

Backs have a chance to stretch up

From captivity

And they move politely outside with

Softened tongues,

Talking about their children, their cats,

The weather,

Anything that distracts them from

The depth

Of intense thought, and carries them

Beyond the graves.

We drive gently away from the church,

The steeple,

Behind us, now asking me questions,

As you look

Comforted, and I pray for a passing pub

On our way home.