A chapel empty

 A chapel empty


A chapel empty on a Tuesday morning

Save for a lady in her weary eighties

Bent over by her age and piety

A sturdy walking stick beside her. 


A day of Spring in old Blackrock

Where outside normal life thrums on

Ignoring sacred space and quiet

Within the holy walls and limpid light. 


The sunlight filtered by stained glass

Creeps in and blesses golden stone

Of creams and light browns 

That bring attention to the knave. 


Above the altar hangs a massive cross

And lower down a cast of saints

From far and wide and of course Our Lady

Holding in her arms a blessed baby. 


A quiet time for a Quaker

Who loves the magic of a church

Mindful that this cannot last

The last survivor on a desert island. 


The pulpit stands, a testament 

To different times and ages

But special all the same 

It was their words that formed us. 


The tabernacle glistens

Adorned with Alpha and Omega

Some things will forever stay

Grateful for a normal weekday. 

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