The biannual visit, head straight for the back,
away from the pulpit, the non-participants,
stand, arms-folded, glaring,
caught in a heretical trap.
Father winces at the choir,
Well meaning, though hopelessly tuneless.
Clarinet and flutist chew on contrasting chords,
Rogue notes clash like blunted battleswords.
The Priest drones on, his sermon,
About this and that and so on,
‘Da Vinci Code’ nonsense, morality’s general disappearance.
The bread is broken, the wine is transformed,
Sorrowful expressions are dutifully adorned,
All Sunday best dressed, creaseless and sheek
And oh, didn’t the hat shop do well this week!
Round of applause for a wonderful service,
Then straight to the bar, quaff in earnest,
The under elevens, drunk on salvation,
Run riot in the graveyard/garden.
The customary conversations, elderly exchanges,
Of railway stations, dates and changes
Head for the door,
Sincerest of smiles for our dear ecclesiastic,
“Happy Easter!” (sound enthusiastic).
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