It sounds
like censers swinging
Broadcast
from a cathedral
It sounds
like diaphragm flex
Twisted into
radio waves
It sounds
like the weight of stone
Lifted into
flying buttresses
It sounds
like air forced through
Pipes
The kitchen
window is ajar.
Picture a
child peeling bark
From one of
these huddled trees
Birches
shudder
Just thinking
about it
“Imagine if a tree came along
And peeled
off your skin”
My Godson is
a chorister
I saw him
singing at midnight mass
Given a
different childhood perhaps
I’d have sung
for the Archbishop
I’d be a lay
vicar now
Each of the
elder choristers wears a beard
To be
absolutely clear
I like to
sing the hymns
Aside from
having my shirt untucked
Being late
for chapel
Was my only
misdemeanour
I won the
divinity prize all the same
I do not say
the prayers
“For all the
boots
of the
tramping warriors
and all the
garments
rolled in
blood
shall be
burned
as fuel for
the fire”
Thanks be to God
Bold words
In the order
of service
Mean we
should speak them
Together.
Together.