Church In The Afternoon (Poetry)

Its hollow body full of heavy silence
stone-dust dulling plain dark wood
the scent of ghosts provided subtle welcome
for God seemed out for the afternoon
leaving a meagre light to force an entry
through squint windows.

There were pots of flowers and the feeling
not too long before
other visitors had been there
gazing at the few remaining relics of belief —
wall paintings almost lost from Saxon times
and defying any too-late attempt at restoration.

Familiar concepts gathered close — birth, death and resurrection
a glimpse of Heaven and the promised life to come —
that old solid faith unaltered — surviving sure
in those thick walls of consecrated stone
and the whispering pulpit with its endless store of sermons —
pious echoes that will prove the tenets true...

Sombre in that hallowed hush — so much was bare
of ornament — unfussy — and showing, unabashed,
all those centuries of scars — the wear and tear of constant use
by worshippers — every foot that trod the floor
recorded by a gradual erosion — flakes of plaster chipped away
like strata telling one long simple tale

written there — immutable — beside the chiselled names of men
whose small lives claimed their place
before death moved them to some higher church
and left a shadow-haunted shell
for others to inherit — keeping faith in their own way
preserving what they could —

the building seeped in spirit — heady the bouquet
of righteousness that rose up with the dust
disturbed by latterday intruders — our small company
who lingered — intrigued by its rare vintage
drank in that musty atmosphere — wondering
and savouring its special blend of peace.