Here beneath the wind’s contrition
and above the ephemeral splendour of the grass
it has both carefully managed and maintained
the stations of eternal things.
Now it has become a sky scoured shell
where falling stones refill a vault of empty praise
the closed gospel of a winter’s morning decades past
when the last of two centuries of prayer
drifted like the vagaries of wood smoke
into airy nothingness as the congregation went home.
And is there nothing left of hymn or homily;
colour, cup - the dull wafer of piety and faith?
No - only in the bell-pull of old pine tree branches,
the dark and brooding lamentation of the birds.
©Jeff Guess 2018