there is the font,
there is the euphonium,
there is the pulpit,
but dear god,
where is the congregation?
there is life in the invading ivy,
in the green algae upon the walls,
the bird shit on the broom.
the light through the tile-less roof
bemuses the fallen benches,
in every angle but which way.
this is not an ancient demise;
see the bucket and broom,
the red, red wheelbarrow.
this is deliberate.
the decrepit euphonium moribund,
dry tears stain the begging wood,
there are hands reaching from the grave,
stretching to touch the keys once more:
there are deadened feet itching to
pump the pedals to life, just one more time.
if the cobwebs and fallen debris
can be swept aside it might ....
but the grand oak-beamed vault of
the ceiling knows, in all sadness,
that it will not. not in this lifetime.
just as the long cable light bulb
will never shine. the stained glass
windows will never lead the eye
to heaven. god forbid!
is there a sermon on the lectern?
i dare not look. or that broken floorboard,
did the sunday school children hide their
naughty hymnbooks under there?
shiver. does the holy ghost linger?
are the congregants sibilant in swirling?
is the pale vicar expounding to the damp walls?
this old abandoned chapel is on the cusp
of eternity. i can feel it.
when i walk away it might ... again.
i do hope so. dusty in there;
i seem to have something in my eye.