The Black Cross

Silver and gold in a black Pellegrina cape He moved like a bat flapping to escape The thurible swinging as the smoke trailed out His words floated across the congregation in a shout The altar bedecked with cross and flowers The priest played his part in the Church’s hour Be-smocked and bedevilled his figure stands A leader of the church that loyalty demands These scenes of the church are so faithfully rendered But truth has a way of being upended And all I can see in my mind Is a child hanging by a door knob so very unkind. © Paul Warren Poetry