The old church –
Thief of the best Sundays of my childhood –
Is dilapidated.
The courtyard is unkempt;
The parsonage is surrounded by weeds;
The Belfry and Vestry need maintenance;
The Alter, I don’t know;
The garden has a few shrunken shrubs;
And, some shriveled betelnut trees;
The trees under which we ate potluck lunch are gone;
So is the Sexton’s wooden cottage.
Yet, there it stands erect;
Having seen Governors, freedom struggles,
Teargas shells, riots,
Deaths, births, weddings, confirmations, and christenings,
Passing by below its arches.
Yes, now when the bells of St. Mary the Virgin toll
A sad funereal message,
I feel like a child again,
Lost in innocence.
