Boyhood Memories of Church
Twice on Sundays if grandparents were in charge
We sift the landfills of the past with vital questions.
Is it too late? Does love have an expiration date?
Did Jesus mind us laughing?
As ageing turns each one forensic
time ticks the body to death.
Now I’m a scavenger
desperate for that morsel holding
forgiveness & redemption.
Memory builds. Here are red bricks.
Two churches filling with parishioners.
Why was the day of rest so exhausting?
Hardly Santiago but we were pilgrim
children shuffling three miles
between spires, the Book of Common Prayer
on our laps — knees hardened by hassocks.
Grandfather preaching in the pulpit
Grandmother leading the choir
red as a robin caught singing out of tune
a warbler gone wrong.
Is that even possible — I mean for
birds to make mistakes like humans?
Is giggling unholy? It was to them.
Yet they loved us nonetheless
within the limits of their humanness.
I found it unforgivable for way too long.
Copyright Simon Heathcote
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